


Chance Encounters I thru VI

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-31
Updated: 1999-12-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 07:31:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11331264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A series of chance encounters can have personal consequences.





	Chance Encounters I thru VI

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Chance Encounters I by Josan

Title: CHANCE ENCOUNTERS I   
Story of 6 encounters  
Author: Josan  
Date: Written July, 1999   
Posted October, 1999  
Summary: A series of chance encounters can have personal consequences.   
Pairing: Sk/K   
Rating: PG-13 for the first encounter.   
Archive: Ratlover, CJK, Basement.  
Comments:   OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try 

DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013. But, by chance, I too encountered them. 

NOTE: If there are inaccuracies in the medical details and in the behaviour of OPC, chalk it up to the fact that I never made it to the end of a St. John's Ambulance first aid film and that I have absolutely no idea how OPC actually behaves. 

* * *

******************************************************* 

CHANCE ENCOUNTERS: This being the First 

******************************************************* 

Skinner did a double-take. 

The man who was crossing the street ahead of him was the Third Man. That's what he had named the third of his assailants from the hospital stairwell. The other two had names: Krycek and Cardinale. The first had disappeared somewhere in Russia, the second had died in a prison cell waiting arraignment. The third had just disappeared into thin air. But now, more than two years later, had suddenly reappeared in front of him. 

Carefully, Skinner followed the man. Old techniques of surveillance quickly came back. He didn't think the man had spotted him following him into building with the sign on the door: Rehearsal and Recording Studios for Rent or Lease. 

There was no one in the lobby. The door to the stairwell was just closing. Skinner drew his weapon, cautiously opened the door, heard another shut below him. 

He started down the stairs on cat's feet. Wouldn't it be ironic if there was a repeat of the last stairwell incident? he thought. 

He got to the door, slowly pushed it open, listened for any sound before stepping out into the basement hallway. 

Skinner had a glimpse of a man out of the corner of his eye before the lights went out. 

He was aware of the headache, first. His stupidity at being caught without back-up, second. The fact that the room he was in had a high overhead light, but no windows, third. That his glasses lay next to his legs fourth. He put them on and came to his fifth realization. 

Alex Krycek was hanging by one arm in front of him. 

He got slowly to his feet. Krycek was naked, had been beaten. His body from groin up to face was a wealth of freshly administered bruises. 

The fact that it was Krycek, that he was naked, that he seemed to be unconscious was diminished by the fact that his left arm ended in a stump. And that the right shoulder was hanging in such a way that indicated it was probably dislocated. 

Skinner staggered up, went to Krycek and lifted his body enough so that the weight of it no longer pulled on his shoulder. 

The hand was tied to a hook on the ceiling by a cord the thickness of a mooring line. With some difficulty, Skinner shifted Krycek's dead weight to his left side, and rising on tip-toe, managed to reach the knots that held the man up. It took a lot of patience, a great many tries before the last knot gave way and Krycek's arm flopped down. 

Skinner dropped onto his knees at the sudden release of weight, just managing to keep Krycek's head from hitting the cement floor. He let the man down, rolled his head to ease the tension in his neck and shoulders. 

He took off his coat, used it to cover Krycek. A quick inspection of the room told him it was one of those sound-proof studios he had seen advertised on the lobby door. The door was locked from the outside. Apart from a pile of clothing and a prosthetic arm, there was nothing in the room. No chairs, no tables, nothing to use as a weapon. 

He checked Krycek's clothes, boots, even the arm \--reluctantly -- as a hiding place for a possible weapon. It was obvious the Third Man had had the same idea. Krycek's leather jacket had its lining ripped loose. His boots were cut: if there had been a weapon in them, it wasn't there now. 

And the arm. It gave Skinner the chills to think that this was part of Krycek. What the hell had happened to him? The last he'd heard, Krycek had gotten away from Mulder in Tunguska Forest, with two good arms. 

He went to check on Krycek himself. 

Apart from the possibility of some cracked ribs, the main problem would be internal bleeding. So far Skinner could find no sign of that, but he wasn't a doctor. He moved from the body to the right arm. His wrist had been torn by the rope, by the struggles of Krycek's movements and weight. 

The shoulder was a straight dislocation. Skinner felt carefully, but Krycek made a gasping sound. He wouldn't be unconscious much longer. Skinner acted quickly: it would be easier to reset the shoulder while Krycek was still out. It took almost no time to snap the bone back into realignment. Still, Krycek felt it: this time he moaned loudly. 

There wasn't much else Skinner could do for the man. He wrapped the torn wrist in his clean handkerchief, used Krycek's sweater to make a sort of sling for his right arm, wrapping it close to his chest at the same time trying to avoid putting pressure on those ribs. 

While Krycek slowly regained consciousness, Skinner finally made himself examine the mangled stump. There were burn scars, shiny in the light. Signs of a knife, of a scalpel. Of at least one operation, maybe two. Neither a success by the looks of it. Skinner had seen cleaner amputations on the battlefields of Nam. 

Krycek's eyes opened and had trouble focusing. Even when they had focused, he didn't quite believe what they saw. "Skinner?" His voice was raspy, faint. 

Skinner crouched by the man. "Krycek. Thought you were in Mother Russia." 

Krycek tried to moisten his lips. 

"Sorry. There's no water or anything liquid here." 

"What time?" 

Skinner looked at his watch. "Nearly five." 

"Anyone missing you?" 

"No. The meeting was a waste of time. I was making an early day of it." 

"Back-up?" 

Skinner looked a bit angry. "No." His tone indicated that no additional comment from Krycek would be welcomed. "You?" 

Krycek made a sort of laughing sound, winced suddenly in pain. His eyes opened wide. "My arm!" Panic. 

Skinner reached over, put his hands on Krycek's shoulders. "Krycek. Your right arm was dislocated. I set it. It's wrapped around your chest. Try not to move: you may have some cracked ribs." 

But Krycek wasn't listening. Was trying to move his left arm to feel his right. Couldn't, of course. That didn't help the panic. Skinner finally had to give him a shake which sent pain cursing through his body. 

"Krycek! Listen to me! Look at me! Damn it, will you look at me!" 

Krycek's panicky breathing was aggravating the pain in his chest. That, combined with Skinner's tone, got through to him. He tried to control his breathing, make it shallow so as not to put too much pressure on his ribs. Finally succeeded. 

"Krycek. Are you listening to me?" 

"Yeah." Whispered. 

"Listen. Your right shoulder was dislocated. I set it. I wrapped your sweater around you to keep the arm immobile and to keep you from hurting your ribs more. Got that? That's why you can't move it." 

"But it's still there?" 

"Yes. It is still there. Feel my hand on yours? Your right arm is still there. Just immobilized. Until I can get you to a doctor." He waited till he was certain Krycek understood. 

"Krycek? Do you have a weapon hidden in the prosthesis? Krycek! Do you?" 

Krycek opened his eyes. Now that he had been reassured about his right arm, he was having trouble focusing on anything. "Weapon?" 

"Yes, Krycek. A weapon. Look, they got mine. Both of them. Even took the cell phone. Do you have anything in the prosthesis? A knife? A gun? Anything?"   
Krycek had to think. "Knife. In boots." 

Skinner grunted. "No. Not any more. They've been ripped apart. And so's your jacket." He tried again. "Do you have a weapon hidden in your prosthesis?" 

Krycek shook his head slightly. "No." 

"Shit!" Skinner gave the room another look, trying to see if there had been anything he'd overlooked. Krycek said something. Skinner looked back at him. "What? I missed that." Short. Irritated. 

"I said the thing's a weapon. Heavy. Metal." 

Skinner went over to the pile of clothes and picked up the fake arm. Krycek was right: the damn thing was heavy. Shit! No wonder the stump looked the way it did. He swung it a couple of times. By the straps. By the hand. Either way, it would pack a good wallop. 

He picked up Krycek's clothes, brought them over to the man. "Let's get you dressed. That'll keep you warm. And when we get out of here, no one will notice the condition you're in. We don't want to attract too much attention." 

It took longer than he would have liked, simply because he didn't want Krycek to lose consciousness. Finally he had gotten Krycek dressed in shorts, jeans, socks, leather jacket zipped closed to keep his arm stable. His boots were useless. 

Krycek lay on the floor, Skinner's coat covering him for extra warmth. He was beginning to shiver from shock. He kept moving his fingers against his collarbone where Skinner had isolated his hand, just to reassure himself that it was still there. 

Matherson had promised to cut it off before he finally killed him. 

He was having enough trouble adjusting to life with only one hand: he had no intention of living with none. 

"Skinner." His voice was dry, making it hard to be heard. He had to try again before Skinner heard him. 

"What?" 

"Help me sit up. By the door. Maybe trip one of them...when they come back." 

"Shit, Krycek. There are two of them! Why didn't you..." Skinner cursed under his breath. Christ, Krycek was barely conscious. Don't take it out on him. He wasn't the fucking idiot who followed a suspect without back-up. 

"You sure?" At Krycek's nod, he helped the man up, slowly got him over to just that side of the door and helped him sit down, back against the wall. He wrapped his coat around Krycek's shoulders. The move had made him realize the condition the man was in. 

Krycek tried to find a position that would help lessen the pressure on his ribs. He didn't give their chances a high percentage of success. But sitting here, with luck, he might get one of the men to shoot him while he still had an arm. 

He dozed a bit, waking every time his head fell forward because of the sudden pull of the muscles on his shoulders. The right one was especially painful with what had to be strained ligaments. 

It was after seven when they heard noise at the door. Krycek looked to Skinner, who stood, the prosthesis harness wrapped tightly around his hand. Like Krycek, he knew they didn't have much of a chance. It would all depend on timing and luck. 

The two men concentrated on the door. Krycek had pulled up the leg closest to the door opening and put all the anger, all the strength he had left into a kick that caught the first man just above the ankle, snapping it. He screamed just as Skinner hit him with the arm. 

Matherson, who was behind him, tried to slam the door shut, but his partner, now unconscious, lay partially in the doorway. Skinner had picked up the man's gun in his left hand, not his best shooting hand, but good enough to fire a couple of times and convince Matherson to get out as quickly as possible. 

Skinner pursued him to the stairwell, realized that he would never catch him as he heard the upper door close and decided to get Krycek out instead. 

Krycek was not conscious. Lay on his more injured side. Skinner barely spared a glance for the other man. He dragged Krycek out to the hallway and shut the door on their assailant. He stowed the prosthesis in the arm of his coat, wrapped the coat around Krycek, buttoned it. 

Taking a chance that his ribs were only bruised, that there was no internal bleeding, Skinner hoisted Krycek over his shoulder, in a fireman's hold, and, gun in his right hand, he got both of them out of the building. 

He kept to the shadows, thankful that at this time of the year, darkness came early. And that in this part of town, the few people they passed believed in minding their own business. 

Actually made it back to his car without attracting the attention of anybody. 

******************************************************* 

"How is he?" 

Joe Fischer looked up from washing his hands. He had been a doctor in Marines for twenty years, a poker buddy of Skinner's off and on for almost thirty, and now worked at a free clinic in the DC war zone. 

"A couple of bruised ribs. Best left alone. Abrasions and contusions. I've bandaged the wrist; change it as you see fit, then leave it to the air. The rest don't need any special attention. I'll leave some antibiotic cream for all those." 

"Right shoulder, strained and torn ligaments. Keep him bound up like I've done. That'll hurt like hell. You got codeine around? Good. Give him some of that." 

"Left stump. Severely traumatized. Whoever did that to him was a butcher. And so was the asshole who tried to clean it up. Fairly recent. In the last year. That prosthesis thing is too heavy, too ill-fitting to be of much use. He should have one of those new ones with electrodes and computer chips, but he'll need surgery for that." 

"Apart from that, he needs feeding up: he's underweight." 

Joe had wiped his hands, come out of the bathroom off Skinner's bedroom, was looking again at his patient. He had sedated Krycek as soon as he had ascertained there was no chance of concussion. "He'll sleep till morning at least, probably longer. That's what he needs the most: sleep." 

He looked at his poker buddy. "I just want to point out to you, in passing, that I haven't asked why you haven't taken him to a hospital. Why you've asked me to keep his presence here a secret. I'm assuming that you have good reason for him to be here. You being an FBI assistant director and all. 

"And I don't want to know what his name is. But I will tell you that his body tells me he's living hard. And those calluses he has on his hand and feet tell me you'd better be on his good side. 

"So, I will be checking in on my patient...and you...over the next few days." 

Skinner grinned. "I like the way you mind your own business, Joe. And thanks. I do appreciate all this." 

"Enough to let me win a couple of hands?" 

Skinner laughed. 

*******************************************************  
End of Episode 1, Part 1/3 

******************************************************* 

CHANCE ENCOUNTERS: Part 1 (2/3) 

******************************************************* 

Krycek woke stupid. 

He was wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and beyond that his mind didn't want to know. 

Eventually some things made their way into awareness. The smell of clean sheets. The softness of the pillow. The comforting heaviness of blankets. 

So he was in a bed. When was the last time he actually lay in a bed? he asked himself. A clean one. He found himself pondering over that as if it were a question whose answer might solve the problems of the world. 

He fell asleep still pondering. 

The next time he woke, he tried to move just to make himself a bit more comfortable. Pain flared from his right shoulder and he forgot to be stupid. 

He kept still, waiting for the pain to subside. Remembered Matherson and his partner stumbling across him by merest bad fortune down at the Circle. The guns in his back, the car drive to the studio. Matherson's delight with his prosthesis. 

Panic waved through him. His arm! Shit! He couldn't feel his arm! 

Hadn't felt the left in some time: he was beginning to accept that, still not quite used to that. 

But the right! Matherson had promised he'd have a matching set of arms by the time he got through with him. He tried to move his right arm and couldn't. 

Panic was making him breathe hard, made his ribs hurt, his stomach. 

But the only thing he was aware of was the fact that he couldn't move, couldn't feel his right arm or hand. 

Jesus! He was barely surviving with the left one gone. How would he with no arms? You couldn't kill yourself with no arms. 

Panic, fear, terror overwhelmed him. The warm cocoon had become a prison, a place of torment. 

He was trying to pull out of it when hands forced him back, held him down. A voice he knew in the back of his mind but couldn't place was speaking over his terror. 

Finally, Skinner gave up trying to get through to the wild animal struggling beyond sense in the bed. He raised his hand and slapped him hard on the side of his face that was less battered. 

And again. 

"Krycek! Stop it! You're only hurting yourself!" 

Even then Krycek was beyond reason. Finally Skinner could make out words in the sounds coming out of the man's mouth. My arm. Over and over again. Barely coherent. 

Skinner hauled Krycek up to a sitting position, captured the flailing head between his two hands and held it still. "Krycek!" He enunciated every syllable carefully, forcefully, hoping the tactic would penetrate the nightmare. "Krycek! Your arm is all right. Nobody has cut it off. Listen to me. You still have an arm!" 

Krycek stopped struggling, tried to focus on the face speaking the words. A part of him told him the words were important, that he should listen to them. A larger part of him just wanted to scream. Slowly the balance of power shifted and he listened. 

Recognized the words. Recognized the voice. 

Skinner. 

What was ... The studio. At the studio. Skinner was there with him. Was with him now. This was a bed, not the studio. There hadn't been a bed at the studio. So where were they? 

And the words were beginning to make sense. He tried to get past the fear to listen to the sense of the words Skinner was giving him. 

Skinner saw Krycek begin to understand, saw the panic be pushed down, heard the breathing become less stressed. He continued repeating the words that Krycek seemed to need most: "You still have an arm." 

The body between his hands slowly lost its rigidity, the head became almost too heavy for the neck to hold upright. 

Skinner moved closer so that Krycek could rest against him. He used one hand to brace the man against him, the other to stroke, in calming motion, the back of the head, the neck, the top of the hunched shoulder. The drugs must have made him forget yesterday's conversation. 

"Krycek. Are you listening?" 

Krycek nodded his head against the large shoulder that supported him. "Yes." More of a croak than a whisper. 

"Your right arm is still there. Got that?" Another slight head movement. "It's bound up because your shoulder was dislocated. The ligaments need time to heal and the doctor doesn't want you moving them around. So he bound up your arm." He shifted Krycek a bit in his arms. "Feel that? That's my hand. I'm touching your hand. Krycek?" 

Krycek swallowed against the pain that was gradually making itself felt. He realized that he could feel Skinner's hand. And that it was touching his hand. He released some of the residual panic and fear in a sigh. Nodded his head. "Yes. I can feel it. Your hand. My hand." A deep breath that hitched as soon as ribs protested. "Sorry." 

Skinner carefully lay the man back down on the bed. Krycek's eyes were closed, his face white against the bruises of yesterday's beating, his torso damp with the sweat of fear. He could see the pulse in his throat still jumping. 

"There's nothing to be sorry about." He kept his hands on Krycek's shoulders until the pulse settled. 

Krycek felt the mattress shift as Skinner got up. A moment later he heard water running nearby. Then Skinner was back, hand under his head, raising it for the glass he held at his lips. 

"Slowly. Your ribs don't need any more action. No coughing, Krycek." 

The water was cold, wet. His mouth was parched, foul with the after effects of his panic. He drank slowly, letting the coolness wash some sanity into him. 

Then the hand released his head on the pillow and seconds later a blessedly cool cloth passed over his face, neck, upper chest removing the smell of his fear. 

He opened his eyes to find Skinner's watching him, waiting to see if there was going to be a repeat of his panic. Krycek's eyes tracked beyond Skinner to case out the room. Survival instincts were finally back in the forefront. He didn't recognize the place. 

"You're in my bedroom." 

Krycek's eyes came back to his, wary, but panic and fear gone back to whatever place he stashed them in. "Your bedroom? Well, at least it's warmer than your balcony." 

Skinner quirked an eyebrow at the reference. 

"What am I doing in your bedroom, Skinner?" 

Well, thought Skinner, the boy recovers quick. "Your ex-partner is still on the loose. He'll have a harder time getting to you here than in a hospital." 

Krycek moved a bit, trying to find a position that might be easier on his shoulder. "He was working on his own. He knows I owe him for the car bomb. He wants to get me before I get him." Krycek closed his eyes. "Because I will get him." 

******************************************************* 

The next time Krycek woke, he remembered where he was, how he'd come to be here, that he still had one arm. Skinner was not around. 

There was daylight in the bedroom, making its way past the curtains in the window. Slowly moving his head as to avoid any pain, he checked out the room, figured out that the bathroom was behind the partially shut door. 

And right now that was an important piece of information. Because he needed to piss badly. It took him some time and a nearly bitten lip to move his body up the bed to the headboard. Which gave his spine the backing it needed to push himself into a sitting position. From there to swinging his legs out from under the sheets and to the floor. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the worse of the pain to recede before he tried standing. If he fell, he had no guarantee that he would be able to get himself back onto his feet. He really didn't want Skinner to come back from wherever he was -- probably work -- and find him lying in a pool of piss on the bedroom floor. 

At which point he heard someone make a noise. 

There, standing in the doorway of the bedroom, was a large black man, shoulder leaning against the jamb, arms crossed on a Skinner-type chest. He was watching Krycek with a bit of a smile on his heavy-featured face. There was a thick moustache under his large nose. A clean-shaven head over it. 

"Don't panic, boy, I'm your doctor." The man didn't move from his place. He waited till the other man had accepted that information. "Skinner was right about you." 

Krycek didn't react to that goad. Just waited, like his "doctor". 

"He said that you were a ratbastard with guts." Fischer straightened and strolled into the room. He shook his head, his glare somewhat intimidating. "All you had to do, boy, was call out." 

He helped Krycek to his feet. Supported him into the bathroom. Used one hand to keep him on his feet, the other to direct his penis into the toilet. Krycek silently cursed to himself the whole time his bladder emptied itself: this is what his life would be like if Matherson got to him first. 

Fischer was very aware of the "boy's" feelings. He had helped enough double amputees in his career to interpret the signs. Still, this one would recover the use of his arm quickly enough, so he had no intention of wasting sympathy on him. Before returning him to bed, Fischer helped Krycek brush his teeth, gave him a very quick sponge bath. 

"Those bruises of yours would make Picasso proud," he commented. "You're lucky Skinner came across you when he did. Apart from the shoulder and bruised ribs, you're doing fine." 

Krycek said nothing. Had pushed deep within himself when he realized just how helpless he was in his present state. He didn't respond to the other's teasing tone, just waited for whatever was going to happen. 

Fischer took a good look at his patient as he got him back into bed. The boy looked to be in the preliminary stages of shock: eyes almost black, no expression at all on his face, body doing as he asked of it. Mind hidden somewhere. 

Fischer propped him up on the pillows, taking care not to aggravate the ribs, the shoulder. He went and got the tray he had left on the landing when he'd heard the irregular breathing of a man doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing. 

Krycek slowly became aware of the mug of soup held to his mouth. "Come on, boy, snap out of it!" His eyes began to focus more. "That's better. You've only got a disabled shoulder. You haven't lost the arm. Give it a week, and you'll be able to put it to all sorts of uses." 

He watched as some colour came back into Krycek's face. "Drink, boy. It's soup and it'll help chase the chills away." 

Krycek had almost finished the large mug when it finally struck him that his doctor kept referring to him as "boy" in a Skinner tone. He raised his head and really looked at the man. "You're a Marine." 

Fischer quirked an eyebrow at the comment. "What makes you say that?" 

Krycek forced himself to relax. This was nothing more than a client who had to be humoured. "You've got the same barber as Skinner." 

Fischer surprised him with a chuckle. "Not bad, boy. You'll live." 

******************************************************* 

The fact that he would live didn't balance the humiliations of daily living. 

By the second day of his stay, he wanted nothing more than to tear off the bandages that immobilized his arm. Both Fischer and Skinner had taken turns helping him to the bathroom, cleaning him. Helping him eat, wiping his face when he accidentally slobbered. And, in spite of the continual reassurance from both men that it was just a matter of time before he got the use of his arm back, Krycek was beginning to drop into severe depression. 

"It's not just this episode," Fischer said to Skinner Friday evening as he got ready to leave. "I'm willing to bet that he still hasn't adjusted to losing the other arm. It's normal to be depressed at this stage of acceptance. Besides, he's got nothing else to do but stew about it. He'll get out of it when he's got the arm back and he's not dependant on anyone to wipe his ass for him." 

That hadn't stopped the nightmares. He'd often had dreams, most of which he didn't remember when he woke up. Usually, he would find himself sitting up in bed, gasping for breath, not sure what it was that had awakened him. 

Now and then, it would be worse: he would remember, near to screaming, heart pounding, covered in sweat. Those were the nights he didn't go back to sleep. That he used either to move on to another place, or to go for a long walk till he had shoved his ghosts back into the compartment in his brain where they stayed till their next sortie. 

That night, his nightmares mixed themselves. 

He was back in Tunguska, on the ground by the fire. They were holding him down, sitting on his legs, his chest, his right arm. The old man had wrapped a rope around his left wrist, was pulling it taut all the while pushing against his ribs, his armpit with booted feet. 

In his dream, Krycek turned his head to see the butcher approach him with the white-hot blade. Yelling curses, he tried to push the men off him, to pull away. But they were very experienced at holding people down. 

The butcher knelt at his shoulder. Someone tore his shirt sleeve down. The old man tightened his grip and pulled back even harder. 

The blade cut and seared at the same time. Krycek couldn't believe the pain. His curses changed to screams. 

The blade hit bone, but the butcher was prepared for that. At his signal, someone with a hammer hit the wide top of the blade with just the right amount of force to slice through the bone and continue its cutting. 

The old man fell backwards. 

Someone took the bloodied knife from the butcher and handed him another one, also white-hot. He was going to go over the cut to make sure it was thoroughly seared. 

In Tunguska, Krycek had finally fainted at this point, but in his dream the butcher became Matherson who, laughing, was pointing with a white-hot blade at his other shoulder. 

Krycek screamed and screamed again. 

At the first scream, Skinner had run up from the living room couch where he was sleeping. He turned on the light to the bedroom as he entered, barely stopping on his way to the screaming man. 

Krycek was thrashing on the bed, entangled in the bedclothes, out of his head with images only he could see. Skinner grabbed the man, tried to keep him from hurting himself, all the while calling out his name. 

Krycek's eyes had rolled back into his head. The scream diminished only because Krycek had run out of breath. And he wasn't inhaling. 

Skinner slapped him hard, forehand and backhand. "Come on, damn you, breathe!" And again. "Breathe, Krycek, breathe." 

And finally Krycek did breathe. A hitching, raspy breath, but an inhalation nevertheless. Then an exhalation. 

"That's it, boy. Do it again. And again. Good. You've got it." 

But with breath came terror and Skinner watched as Krycek went from shock to hysteria. 

He tried hard to fight him off, used his upper body as a battering ram until Skinner just dropped his own body on top of Krycek's to keep him still. All the time talking, trying to get through to him. To get him out of that nightmare world that was doing its damnest to suck him back in. 

He held the younger man tightly in his arms, stroking the trembling body, calling his name, reassuring him that he was awake. 

Krycek just kept on trying to escape, to pull away from the men who had hurt him, from the man who was threatening to maim him forever. Not understanding the voice that spoke to him. 

Eventually Skinner's patience wore out. He sat up, pulled Krycek up with him and shook him hard. "Krycek! Where are you? Krycek!" He sharpened his tone to one he used when he had been ready to ream, in Nam, one of those fucking West Point idiots they had sent over as officers who, instead of leading them, were putting their lives in danger. 

The tone got through to Krycek. He knew the voice had nothing to do with Tunguska, nothing to do with Matherson. He tried hard to concentrate on it. 

"That's it, Krycek. Don't let it control you. Get a handle on it. Come on, boy, don't let it get to you." 

Skinner watched as Krycek's eyes began to green again, to focus. To push the nightmare aside, to hold onto his eyes as a lifeline out of the nightmare. 

"Skinner?" His throat was raw from his screams. 

"That's right. Skinner." He pulled the shivering man close to him, pulled the blanket around so that he could cover Krycek's back, hoping the extra warmth would help soothe the man. 

Krycek dropped his head to rest against Skinner's collarbone. The residual nightmare threatened to overcome him again. He tried to swallow his fear, tried to remind himself that he was safe -- as safe as he could ever be -- here in Skinner's arms, not by some fire or hanging by some rope in a sound-proof studio. 

Skinner could feel Krycek trying to control his breathing, his memories. He pulled the head close to his chest, one big hand just holding it there, the other gently massaging the tight neck and shoulder muscles. 

Krycek made a small noise. 

"Hey, it's all right. You're safe here." Skinner repeated the words over and over. 

And because he wanted to believe it, had to, Krycek let the terror, the fears not only of the nightmare, but of the past year, flow out. 

Skinner heard the first sob breaking from the man echo in the trembling of his body. He wrapped his arms around the weeping man, holding him even tighter, yet always aware of his physical condition. 

He held Krycek, gently rocking him in his arms, making soothing sounds that weren't words. Rested his own head on Krycek's, just letting the man get through his pain. 

It took a long time for the sounds of weeping to soften, become exhaustion, to fade into sleep. 

All that time Walter Skinner held Alex Krycek until he too, just before dawn, fell asleep. 

*******************************************************  
End of Episode 1, Part 2/3 

******************************************************* 

CHANCE ENCOUNTERS: Part 1 (3/3) 

******************************************************* 

The morning wasn't much better. 

Krycek lay like a rag doll doing whatever Skinner told him to, but other than that, nothing. 

Fischer looked at his patient differently this morning. His face still bore the signs of last night's nightmare and weeping. He'd bitten his lip at some point. His eyes were almost black: Fischer was certain that in bright light, Krycek would be blind. 

"Krycek." He tried to keep his voice even yet sharp, a way of penetrating the fog the man was in. "Krycek. I'm going to unwrap your arm. I need to see just where those ligaments are. 

"Skinner here is going to help me. He's going to prop you up." 

Skinner moved behind Krycek, sat so he could hold the man up. Fischer started unwrapping the bandages that confined Krycek's arm, talking all the while he was doing it, basically describing every action of his hands. 

"There, that's the last of the binding. Now, I've got your hand and I'm placing my other hand on your shoulder. Okay, Krycek, this is where I need you. I need you to bend your elbow. Nothing else. Just bend the elbow. Pull up your hand. Krycek! Do it!" 

Krycek turned his head to the order. What did the voice want him to do? Oh, yeah, pull up his hand. Could he do that? 

"Alex. Pull up your hand." 

Skinner's voice he recognized. And did as he had been told. 

"Good. That's real good. Okay, now look at me, Krycek. Really look at me." 

Krycek focused on the voice, felt it pull him out of the fog. 

"That's it. You're doing fine. Look at me." Fischer was happier with the way Krycek was holding his head, was beginning to squint with his eyes, even the way he swallowed. "Welcome back, boy." 

"Now listen, because if you don't, this is going to hurt like hell. I want to see just how far healed those ligaments are. I don't want any heroics from you, understand? I need to know the moment there's any pain. And I need to know just how severe it is. Got that?" 

Krycek nodded slightly. "No heroics," he rasped. 

The next minute or so lasted forever. He had some movement in the shoulder but nowhere near enough for Fischer to leave the shoulder unbound. 

"Okay. Here's what we're going to do. Krycek, are you listening to me? The shoulder still needs to be kept immobile, so I need to wrap it again. But this time I'll just bind you above the elbow. You'll need to keep the arm in a sling, but you should be able to use the lower half of your arm. On the condition that you use it only to the point of pain. More than that, the ligaments will take longer to heal. You got that?" 

Fischer talked him through the binding, watching carefully as Krycek fought off the panic that was never far away. When he had finished, he helped Skinner prop Krycek up on pillows. Gave him some water to drink. 

"Now, I'm going to examine the other shoulder. And I want you to tell me how that happened." 

Krycek lay on the pillows, eyes closed, waiting for the pain in his shoulder to diminish to a throb. His hand, freed against his stomach, played with the waistband of the sweats they'd put on him. The fingers felt stiff, but they were there, feeling and being felt on his skin. 

"Mulder told me about Tunguska," Skinner was speaking now. He found it easier to focus when Skinner was the one speaking. "I know what happened to you until you dropped out of the back of the truck. What happened next, Krycek?" 

It took a couple of tries before he could get the words out. The two men listened, Fischer wincing when he heard how the arm had been amputated and again when Krycek answered his questions about follow-up care, the attempt by an improperly equipped rural physician to clean up the mess. No anaesthetic for the first, barely any for the second. No wonder the man had nightmares. 

Skinner was the one who got him talking about Matherson's threats. 

Krycek hadn't moved at all during the telling, voice barely changing in tone. Now, his voice began revealing the fear he was dealing with, with varying success. 

"Matherson said he was going to cut off my arm. Use a blow torch to cauterize it." He took a breath to get the fear back down. Continued after a moment. "Ham-string me. He said he'd keep me around to entertain him and his pals. When I bored them, he might kill me. Or just pass me on to someone else." 

"Jesus Christ!" Fischer glared at the unseeing man. "Nice bunch of people you hang around with!" But he filled a syringe and with a gentle touch, injected the drug into Krycek's hip. 

"It's just a light dose," he explained to Skinner. "He'll sleep for three, maybe four hours. Then, even though his ribs and shoulder need the rest, get him out of bed. Move him downstairs, onto the couch. Get him to watch TV, listen to music, anything. 

"And though I'd rather he not use the hand, get him to do a few easy things with it. Maybe if he feels less constricted, he'll be able to fight that depression off faster." 

******************************************************* 

Which is how Krycek found himself, late Saturday afternoon, propped up on Skinner's couch, watching a football game. It wasn't a sport that interested him much. But the fact that for Skinner it was more than a spectator sport was beginning to penetrate even his foggy brain. 

Skinner graphically commented on the action, the play selections, the players, the coaches, the referees. Even argued with the commentators. Krycek found himself watching the game so he could understand Skinner's reactions. 

At one point, Skinner went into the kitchen and came back with a couple of drinks; beer for himself, a soft drink with a straw for Krycek. It wasn't that easy for him to get the straw to his mouth, but the fact that he could do so had the desired effect: he relaxed into the pillows that were stacked behind him. 

Skinner tried to keep supper to things Krycek could manage on his own. Soup with a straw. Sandwich cut up small enough for him to manoeuvre with a long fork without making a mess. 

He'd gone out and rented some stupid comedy Fischer had recommended just so the evening would be more relaxed. The movie was so bad that for a few minutes Skinner was afraid that the idea would backfire. Then, suddenly, Krycek came out with the next line of dialogue before the actors did, and it became a bit of a game between them as to who could guess the next scene, the next bit of dialogue before the film itself. 

So that getting Krycek ready for bed was less stressful for the man than it had been up till then. There had been, for Krycek, a sudden rise in tension when he realized that Skinner would be sleeping in the bed with him. 

"Sorry, Krycek, even for you I can't stand another night on that couch." Skinner turned off the light, stripped to his shorts, and casually got into bed. He pounded his pillow into the shape he preferred, yawned, turned his back to Krycek. " 'Night." 

Krycek wondered just how real all that was, fought off sleep until he heard Skinner's soft snore. He hated to admit it to himself, but the time downstairs had tired him out. He made himself just a bit more comfortable on the pillows, and went to sleep. 

When the nightmare grabbed hold of him, Skinner was there to wake him up before he got to the screaming stage. Skinner moved so that he could hold Krycek back against him, arm around the man's waist, anchoring him against his chest. "Go back to sleep, Krycek. I'll keep the nightmares away." 

On thinking about it, Krycek found he believed Skinner and slept through the rest of the night. 

******************************************************* 

The next morning, Skinner carefully unbound Krycek's shoulder and got him into the shower. He didn't leave him alone; Fischer didn't want him falling and re-injuring that shoulder. 

For Krycek, the pleasure of just standing in the water far outweighed the fact that Skinner had to wash him down. Still, when he was covered in shampoo and soap, Skinner moved him under the spray so at least he got to rinse himself off. 

Instead of the sweats he'd been wearing, Skinner helped him don his own jeans, now freshly laundered. One of Skinner's old sweaters went on, leaving him with enough space to move his hand. 

"You want that beard to stay on or come off?" 

Krycek looked at his reflection in the bedroom mirror. "Off." 

Between the shave, the shower, the clothes, Krycek thought that maybe he might just survive after all. 

The discovery that they both played chess helped put Krycek's brain back into gear. The first couple of games were basically time fillers, a way of getting through the morning until Skinner's football game started on TV. 

The third game, played during lunch, gave each glimpses of the other's strategies. Skinner spent the afternoon looking up for replays and trying to figure out just where Krycek was going with his queen. Krycek discovered that though Skinner was a traditionalist in his moves, he had more than enough military experience to manipulate those traditions. 

When the football game was over, Skinner filled his CD player with jazz, ordered in Chinese, and settled down to warfare with Krycek. 

They went to bed late, still arguing a couple of moves from the last game. And when the nightmare came, Skinner pulled the still sleeping Krycek into his arms, who, once aware who was holding him, settled back into a dreamless sleep. 

Skinner got him up early the next morning. Helped him wash, dress, showed him where things were in the kitchen. "Try to keep the place passably clean, will you? And don't set any fires." 

Krycek smiled. "Can I throw anyone off the balcony?" 

Skinner glared at him as he was checking his briefcase. "Don't even think about it. Fischer said he'll drop in on his way to the clinic, around one. He's got a key to the place, but he'll buzz before he opens the door." 

Fischer was far better pleased with Krycek than he expected to be. He was proving to be sensible about using his hand. And he had to agree, Krycek did indeed seem to be a fast healer. The shoulder was much better, he had far more mobility than his last examination. This time, when he bound up the upper arm, he left the bandage much looser so that Krycek would have still more manoeuvrability. 

"How's the other shoulder?" 

"Twitches now and then." 

"How bad is the phantom pain? And don't tell me you don't have any." 

Krycek grimaced. "Sometimes bad. Starts for no reason. Goes away for no reason. I get the feeling that if I could just rub my hand, the pain would go away." 

"Another operation might help with the pain level. And the frequency. But from what I've read, the phantom pain thing will probably be with you till they bury you." 

Krycek grunted. Made no comment about the operation. Fischer didn't let it go. "You should do some serious thinking about that, Krycek. You need some clean-up to be able to wear one of those new prosthesis. The old ones all require harnesses and straps, and they're cumbersome. 

"And you might like to remember over here I can guarantee you'd be out completely for the operation. And the recovery couldn't be any worse than what you're feeling now." 

Skinner came home to find a fairly clean kitchen, Krycek watching CNN, and the chess board set up for a game. He changed into jeans and a sweater, threw a store-made lasagna into the microwave, made a salad. They ate over the chess board, Skinner challenging Krycek to explain "Just where the fuck are you going with that move?"   
Over the next couple of days, Krycek's ribs tolerated more pressure, his shoulder more mobility. Fischer added some gentle exercises to Krycek's routine: he had returned to his daily regime of stretching and kicking, a sort of self-adapted form of Tai Chi. 

Thursday, Skinner came home with a foul headache, stinking of cigarette smoke. He vented off to Krycek about that "cigarette-smoking bastard" who had spent most of the day, sitting in his office, polluting the air with his endless smokes, "Looking at me all day long like he knew something, like a cat who knows the canary is his." 

He didn't notice Krycek's reaction to that. 

Krycek sat on the couch, listening to Skinner grouch, slowly exercising his arm all the while. 

He knew his time here was at an end. That he should have in fact left a couple of days ago. But it was a rarity in his life, this feeling of safeness, the pleasure of taking time for a chess game, playing it, analyzing it. Of sharing a bed, of being held, with no mention of payment, with no expectations of performance on his part. 

Skinner had bought him another pair of boots to replace the ones Matherson had sliced up. Had had his jacket repaired. Krycek knew where Skinner kept his spare revolver, his real spare, not the Bureau issued one. The ammo to go with it. 

He was very quiet that evening. Skinner had files to read, so Krycek lay on the couch, eyes shut, just listening to the soft jazz playing in the background. 

When Skinner took his shower, Krycek hid the gun and ammo in his jacket, left his boots by the door. He took some money out of Skinner's wallet, added it to his jacket. Made sure his prosthesis was in the closet by the door. 

Upstairs, when he undressed, he folded his clothes, added a sweater of Skinner's to the pile, got into bed. He wanted some more time between clean sheets. 

Skinner went through his bedtime routine before settling down. Krycek waited till Skinner's snores were deep and regular before he slipped out. With careful moves so as to not alert the sleeping man, he straightened his side of the bed so that it looked as though no one had used it. Checked out the bathroom.   
Downstairs, he dressed quickly, looked around so that nothing that could be identified as his was lying around. He did one last thing he hoped Skinner would understand, and then left. 

A finger leaning on his doorbell woke Skinner up. It was barely five o'clock. He turned to see if Krycek...the bed was smoothed down. He grabbed his robe and went to see who was on the bell. 

"Ah, Mr. Skinner. We seem to have gotten you out of bed." 

Jesus! Shit!, thought Skinner, what the fuck is that bastard doing here? 

"What do you want?" Skinner blocked the Smoker's way into his apartment: he may have to endure him at the office, but this was his home and it was off-hours. 

One of the two men behind the Smoker pulled out a badge identifying him as an agent with OPC. "We would like to speak to you about a matter that has come to our attention. Assistant Director Skinner." 

Skinner sighed deeply, drawing out the moment. This explained the smoothed half of the bed. He stepped back, silently allowing the men in. 

While one of them checked out the downstairs, the other went upstairs. The Smoker took out a cigarette, was about to light it when Skinner took it out of his mouth. "Not in my home you don't." And held the Smoker's eyes till he put the lighter back in his pocket. 

"Who are you playing chess with, AD Skinner?" 

Skinner moved into the living room, looked down at the chess board that last night had been lined up for a new game. He raised an eyebrow at the OPC agent who till now had not found anything he was looking for. "It's a problem move that I'm working out. Sort of like the problem you seem to be posing me. Just what is it that you're looking for here, in my apartment?" 

The agent looked over Skinner's shoulder to the other man now standing by the Smoker. "Sorry, Assistant Director. We were given some information that we might find a known felon hiding here. I'm sure you understand that we had to check it out." 

Skinner got that look that made so many of his agents under him fidget. This man, as the silence grew, was no exception. "Well," Skinner spoke very softly, "maybe next time you'll double check your information before waking me up before the crack of dawn. Are you leaving now?" 

The man nodded once, stepped around Skinner who didn't move out of his way. He and the other agent quickly left the apartment. Skinner and the Smoker exchanged glacial glares. 

The Smoker took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth. "Next time, Skinner." He paused just outside the still open door to light his cigarette. 

Skinner waited till he heard the sound of elevator doors closing before he went to shut the door. 

He returned to the chess board. He had no trouble recognizing the set up. Krycek was warning him to protect himself. 

******************************************************* 

About a month later, Skinner came home to find a message from Fischer on his answering machine, telling him to put on the news. 

The phone rang again as the hourly newscast began. 

"You watching the news, Walt?" 

"I just got in, Joe. Give me time to listen to it." 

The lead feature was about a car bombing in which two men had died. One of the men had a long list of arrests to his credit, a man who had often used the name David Matherson as an alias. The other dead man was as yet unidentified. 

"Hold on, it gets better." Fischer said. 

"In an unrelated incident, there was a second car bombing in which a known drug dealer was killed." 

"How is this better?" Skinner muttered into the phone, still mulling over the details of the first bombing. 

"Remember the night I was telling you how some new guy was whipping up a war in the zone by the clinic. A guy who didn't see the clinic as being a neutral part of the zone. The guy whose goons had threatened a couple of my nurses. Your boy was paying much more attention than we thought." 

Skinner was happy that he had had the phone line checked out for wire taps that morning. "What makes you say it was my boy?" 

"The guy and his goons were all in that limo when it went up. Rumour has it they had just bought themselves a briefcase full of crack. Paid for it in cash. 

"Well, a case full of cash was dropped off here this evening, just as I was closing up. I counted it. $327,635. And there was a note in the case, addressed to me. Said 'Payment for services'." His voice registered his appreciation. "Your boy is good." 

Skinner rubbed his eyes. "You going to keep it?" 

"Shit, Walt, the clinic doesn't get any funding whatsoever, not even a nominal amount from the city since cut-backs. What the hell do you think?" 

The next week, a parcel arrived for Skinner in the Bureau's daily mail. There was a tape in it with a note: "Keep in a safe place. Use as needed." 

Skinner waited until he was home before listening to the tape. It was a telephone conversation between the Smoker and a voice that was often in the news these days, a man recently acquitted of racketeering charges in Maryland. 

Their conversation dealt with money laundrying, making it very obvious that the Smoker was setting up a deal for the racketeer, for a percentage. And part of the tape also made it clear that this conversation had occurred after the man's acquittal. 

Skinner tossed the tape in the air and caught it. 

Fischer was right: his boy was good. 

*******************************************************  
End of Part 1  
*******************************************************

 

* * *

 

Title: CHANCE ENCOUNTERS II  
Story in 6 parts   
Author: Josan  
Date: Written July, 1999   
Posted October, 1999  
Summary: A series of chance encounters can have personal consequences.  
Pairing: Sk/K   
Rating: NC-17:   
Archive: Ratlover, CJK, Basement.  
Comments:   OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try 

DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013. But, by chance, I too encountered them. 

* * *

******************************************************* 

CHANCE ENCOUNTERS: This being the Second 

******************************************************* 

Washington, DC, in the summer was hot, humid and because of that tempers flared easily. 

Being AD meant, among other things, that one had to maintain a cool image even if the temperature outside was in the high nineties with a humidex reading over a hundred. And even if the tempers level inside the Bureau was volcanic. 

Mulder and Scully were at each other throats because of a disagreement over some forensic evidence. Two of his other field agents had been handed divorce papers on their return home. Another hadn't ducked quickly enough when some idiot went after his girlfriend with a baseball bat. 

And Jeff Spender had spent the afternoon detailing a report that should have taken twenty minutes max. Every time he had tried to hurry Spender on, Spender felt it necessary to remind Skinner of all the reasons the report had to be so detailed. In the long run, he had just shut up and let the twerp get on with it. 

So, when Skinner opened the door to his apartment, he was fighting off a headache of gigantic proportions. All he wanted was a cool shower, a handful of something for the headache and an evening of peace and quiet. 

He knew it wasn't going to happen when he heard Miles Davis softly moaning on his trumpet. 

He put his briefcase down along with his jacket as he drew his weapon from his holster. 

A careful look-through the apartment told him that the balcony doors were open -- a slight breeze moved the sheer drapes -- when they shouldn't have been. 

And that, on a table by the doors, someone had set up an ice bucket, a glass and an opened bottle of scotch. 

A suspicion was forming in his mind. He let the weapon drop to his side and walked quietly to the table. There he put some ice into the glass, poured some of the scotch, swirled it around savouring the scent of peat bogs. 

The first mouthful helped push back some of the headache. He refilled the glass and went out onto the balcony. 

Krycek, wearing jeans and a thin white t-shirt, was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, just looking out over the city. 

Skinner went and sat next to him. 

Silently, the two men sipped their drinks, listening to Davis and the barely audible traffic sounds from below. 

"You're looking well," Skinner finally broke the silence. 

Krycek was looking well. The past four months had to have been less traumatic than the previous year. He looked fit, relaxed, angelic. He turned his head sideways to look Skinner over, green eyes filled with devilment. 

"You, on the other hand, look like hell." 

Skinner rested his head against the wall, closed his eyes. "It's been that kind of week. And it's only Wednesday." He sighed. 

Later, when he was being honest with himself, he had to admit that he wasn't too surprised when Krycek moved to straddle his legs. 

He kept his eyes closed while his tie was removed, his shirt was unbuttoned. 

While Krycek's mouth played with his. 

He couldn't call the tongue invasive when his own was exploring Krycek's mouth at the same time. 

Neither man was in a hurry. Seemingly quite content with just tasting. 

Then Krycek's mouth moved on and Skinner just sat there, his head tilted back. When the mouth moved to his chest, he demurred. "I need to take a shower." 

Krycek ignored the comment. Moved on to his nipples, playing with the nubs with his tongue, gently biting, using his teeth to pull on them just to the point where the pleasure threatened to become pain. 

Skinner put his glass down, brought his hand up to massage Krycek's nape, silently encouraging the man. After Krycek had built a fire in the pit of his stomach, he pulled the man's head back up to capture his mouth again. 

Krycek rested his body against Skinner's chest, enjoying the play of Skinner's mouth on his face and neck. Skinner used his nose to nudge Krycek's chin up so he could get access to the soft under-throat. Krycek made a slight sound of approval, tipped his head further back so that his throat was fully exposed to Skinner's explorations. 

"Alex." Skinner murmured between tastings, "I'm too old to make love on a floor, especially a cement one. And I need a shower. Let's take this upstairs where we'll be more comfortable." 

"Can I take a shower with you?" Krycek's voice had hoarsened. He bent his head to run his tongue around the swirls of Skinner's ear. 

"Hmm." 

But neither of them made much effort to move from their positions. Skinner pulled Krycek's t-shirt out of his jeans and ran his hand up and across ribs and chest. Fingers found hardened pebbles, pinched and pulled. Krycek arched his back, grunted. 

His own hand was busy freeing Skinner of his belt, slipping into his pants, under the waistband of his shorts to find his awakening cock. Skinner's hips bucked into the hand. 

"Too quick," he protested to Krycek. He captured the wandering hand, dropped his own to Krycek's waist, held tight. "Shower." 

Still touching, still tasting, the men made their way to their feet. Skinner pushed Krycek against the panel of glass next to the balcony door, tried hard to devour his mouth. 

When they moved indoors, they nearly tripped over the bottom run of the sliding doors, causing them both to take a breath, and a breather. Krycek actually giggled a bit. 

Skinner had a wide grin plastered on his face. There was no hint of headache now. Hand gripping Krycek's wrist, he tugged the man towards the stairs and up into the bathroom. 

Undressing took a lot more time than it usually did. There were shoes and boots to toe off. Jeans and pants to remove, hands slowly stroking thighs and legs as they made their descent. Shirt to join them on the floor. T-shirt to be pulled off between kisses. A newer version of prosthesis to be unstrapped, reddened skin to be soothed with mouth and tongue. Skinner's glasses removed and stored safely on a shelf. 

Skinner managed to manoeuvre them to the tub, bent over to turn on the taps, regulate the temperature of the water. Krycek's mouth was identifying each of the vertebrae, from his neck to the middle of his back. 

Skinner turned his head to find Krycek's navel level with his mouth. The perfect occasion for his own exploration. His tongue dipped in, his teeth nibbled on the edge. 

They made it under the spray with just the minimum of water getting on the floor. 

Krycek took the soap from Skinner's hands, held it under the spray. "My turn to wash you." 

Skinner stood still, letting Krycek rub the bar of soap over his chest, his ribs, turning when Krycek pushed a bit so that his back got attention. 

Krycek dropped the soap into the dish. His hand slipped over Skinner's ass, massaging the tight muscles, slipping between the cheeks. A finger found the puckered muscle and teased its way in and out, around, slowly. Went away to the sound of a soft whimper. 

Krycek dropped to his knees, rubbed his nose between Skinner's cheeks, until his mouth came to the asshole. 

Skinner made a whimpering noise when Krycek's tongue began playing with him, pushing its way into him, mouth sucking on the outer muscle. He braced his hands against the front wall of the shower and hoped his legs would support him. 

Krycek slowly stood, replacing his tongue with a finger. There was an instant's hesitation until the muscle relaxed and, head resting against Skinner's shoulder, Krycek slowly eased in first one finger then two. His own erection rested against Skinner's thigh as he moved his fingers back and forth, gently turning them so that his knuckles teased prostate. Skinner's hips bucked in reaction. 

"Alex. Don't. You'll make me come too soon." 

Krycek rubbed his face against Skinner's back. "You sound as though you only have one shot in you." But he removed his fingers. 

He slowly dropped to his knees, his mouth descending Skinner's body, under the arm, till he knelt in front of him. Hand on the back of Skinner's thigh. Took his erection into his mouth. 

Skinner groaned. Christ, it felt so damn good, that mouth. 

Krycek swirled the tip of his tongue around the crown, sucked hard before pushing his mouth further down the thickening cock. 

Skinner pushed with his hips, forcing it further into his throat. 

Krycek began pulling up, using his tongue to pressure the large underside vein. Back to the crown. Brought his hand forward to grasp the base, squeezing and releasing. His tongue played with the slit on the head, he sucked hard as if trying to pull Skinner's come out. 

Skinner thrust his hips forward, not caring any more if he came too quickly. 

Krycek's hand grabbed Skinner's balls, rolled them in their casing, squeezed not that gently, rubbed his hand around and up the perineum, finger back to asshole. He inserted his finger, found Skinner's prostate again. 

That was it for Skinner. He grabbed Krycek's head with both hands, held it steady while he thrust back and forth into that demanding mouth. 

Krycek took a deep breath and swallowed shot after shot of hot, salty-gamey come while Skinner shouted his orgasm. 

His cock slipped out of Krycek's mouth as his knees released him to the floor of the tub. He still held Krycek's head between his hands, rested his forehead against Krycek's. Licked the white residue off Krycek's lips. 

Krycek opened his mouth, let himself be tasted. Let Skinner's tongue clean the remnants of his own semen from the man's mouth. 

Skinner gently kissed that mouth. Moved to kiss eyes, worked his mouth down the nose to nip the tip with his teeth. Krycek's eyes opened, surprised by the teasing. 

"Your turn. But not in the tub. Any longer and we'll both be too waterlogged to do anything." Skinner kissed the devil smile that appeared on Krycek's angel face. 

Getting out of the tub, drying each other was a long involved business.   
At one point, Krycek gasped out, "You need to know. I'm clean." 

It took Skinner a moment to decipher that, his mind was still on the shower. He raised his head from the nipple he was tormenting, made the connection when he saw how serious Krycek was. "Me too." 

He pushed Krycek till his back rested on the bathroom door. Slowly traced a path with mouth and hands to Krycek's demanding erection. Dropped to his knees and took it deep into his mouth. He wasn't as proficient as Krycek, not that Krycek noticed: he found that he had to brace himself against the door, to keep his knees from joining Skinner's. 

Because he was less experienced in this, Skinner took his time, very slowly working in more and more of Krycek's cock into his mouth, from the tip of the head to the point where his gag reflex warned him it was enough. 

All the time, his tongue played with the hard and hardening contents of his mouth. The tip teasing the crown, the flat pressuring the big vein that rose from root to head. 

Skinner's hands had been busy stroking up and down the back of Krycek's thighs, kneading tightening ass muscles, coming around to the front to push knees a bit further apart so he could more easily access Krycek's cock. 

Then, remembering how it had felt, he used a finger to stroke the perineum. His other hand to tease Krycek's balls at the same time. Felt them rise in their casing and thought he was prepared for Krycek's ejaculation. 

Krycek was also better at swallowing than he was. Krycek had more to clean up than he had. 

They finally made it into the bedroom. 

Because the edge had been blunted, they spent time just exploring each other's bodies. 

For Krycek, that was a novel experience. His sexual encounters were mostly business. Fucks to disarm contracts. A way of getting information. Usually quick, often brutal. His body had been well trained to show pleasure with almost anything done to it. But it was rare that he actually felt pleasure. 

Even rarer that someone took the time to discover what really pleasured him. Had anyone ever bothered? 

It hadn't been difficult to understand that Skinner was not overly experienced with men. After all , he had been married for seventeen years and, what he knew about the man told him that he had taken his vows seriously, at least until the end when there was that thing with the dead hooker Mulder had told him about. 

Maybe that was why Skinner was taking such time with him: women were notorious for liking foreplay. The foreplay in his world was usually nothing more than some hip rubbing, a bit of yanking before the actual blow job. 

And he was discovering that he liked all this touching and tasting stuff. Liked having it done to him. Liked doing it to Skinner. 

Found that the soft noises Skinner made whenever he stroked or caressed the right spots added to the fire Skinner's hands, mouth were building in him. 

When he'd come here, set up his seduction scene, he had expected it to be no more than fucking, a way of thanking Skinner for his rescue, a way of satisfying his own curiosity about the man. 

Maybe, a way of relegating Skinner into the category of "client" rather than "jerk-off fantasy". 

Instead he was the one being seduced. 

And when his right spots were stroked or caressed, he found that the noises he made were not faked, were real. 

Which, when he would have time to think about it, would frighten him. 

But not here. Not now. 

Now and here were for him. No outside involvement. No need to report. 

He put his thoughts on hold and became just sensation. 

Skinner was surprised to find how hungry he was for touch. How much he had missed it. 

Sex with Sharon had not been plentiful towards the end. He supposed, before, they had had relations within the expected norm for a couple married as long as they had been, considering the job he had. 

And since the divorce, there had been a few more encounters. One even with a man. But nothing seemed to pan out. He'd taken to masturbation rather than wake in a strange bed with a stranger who was going to remain just that. 

He remembered his pre-married days enough to recognize a seduction scenario when it was presented to him. Maybe he should have just left the apartment when he'd seen the open doors, the scotch. 

But he had been curious about Krycek. Not the Krycek who had betrayed the FBI. Or the one who had beaten him up in the stairwell. Not even the one he had cuffed to the balcony railing that cold autumn night. 

No, the one he had wanted to know more about was the man who needed to be held to keep nightmares at bay. Who had trusted him to do that. Who played chess with delight, with his own weird strategies. Who enjoyed the same jazz that he did. Who, in his own fashion, paid his debts. 

He watched that Krycek come to life under his hands, his mouth and found it exceedingly erotic. 

"Please. Fuck me." Krycek found it hard to put his want into words, but right now he wanted Skinner in him more than anything. Wanted to know if the sensation of Skinner's cock up his ass would help put out the fire in him, the craving that was almost painful. 

Skinner reached into the bedside table for condoms and lube, a left-over habit from his marriage. 

He had trouble with the foil. It was hard to tear it open at the best of times, and right now, he was too busy tasting the difference in textures between Krycek's thigh and the bush next to it. 

Krycek took the foil away from him, tore it open with his mouth. Eyes holding eyes, he sat up, expertly gloved Skinner's rampant cock. Spread a thin layer of lube on the latex. With some awkwardness, on his own fingers. 

He lay back down, rolled over slightly, spread his legs wider and lubed his own asshole, all the time holding onto Skinner's eyes. 

Skinner bent and took his mouth, tongues thrusting against each other. When he moved his mouth back down, Krycek arched his back, head tossed back, throat exposed. 

Penetration was slow, not just because Skinner didn't want to hurt his partner, but because by now, the erotic flavour of slowness had permeated all their actions. 

Krycek pushed his ass down along Skinner's shaft as Skinner pushed in. 

All that Krycek wanted was centred in that shaft. He gasped aloud at the pleasure it built in him. He whimpered when he felt it withdrawing. Clenched his ass around it, to keep it from leaving him. 

Skinner grunted at the sensation. He wasn't far from coming, but he wanted Krycek to come first. Wanted to see if those eyes would darken further. If the surprise he had already glimpsed now and then would appear yet again. 

The knowledge that for Krycek some of this mating was new to him only added to his own sense of satisfaction. His hand gripped and released, stroked and caressed Krycek's cock in the same slow rhythm of penetration. 

When Krycek came, Skinner grimaced in pleasure at hearing the scream that tore its way from the man's tendoned throat. The sound threw him over the edge, and soon his own loud grunts of completion filled the room. 

They lay in a tangled heap, barely finding the energy to breathe. Eventually Skinner went to move off Krycek, worried his weight would be too heavy for the smaller man. Krycek's hand came up to hold him back. He whimpered a small complaint. So Skinner stayed where he was, head resting on Krycek's collarbone, Krycek's legs resting on the back of his thighs. 

They stayed that way for a short while. Dozing. 

Krycek woke to find his face being traced by a finger. He turned his head slightly, almost afraid of opening his eyes. Of what he might see in Skinner's. He braced himself: best get it over with. 

Skinner was aware of the tensing, not fully aware of the reason for it. He smiled down at the serious eyes watching him. Slowly bent to take a soft mouth with his. 

Krycek pulled him down for a serious kiss. The wariness in his eyes replaced by satiation. 

They didn't speak, just slowly played mouths over faces, arms wrapped around each other. Skinner yawned first, pulled Krycek's head against his shoulder. Slept. 

He was alone when he woke. Knew from the feel of the place, alone in the apartment. He rolled over onto his back, covered his eyes with an arm. Waited for his disappointment to abate. 

He might have felt better if he had known that Krycek had left quickly because he was afraid to stay. 

*******************************************************  
End of Part 2  
*******************************************************

 

* * *

 

Title: Chance Encounters III  
Story in 6 parts  
Author: Josan  
Date: Written July, 1999   
Posted October, 1999  
Summary: A series of chance encounters can have personal consequences.  
Pairing: Sk/K   
Rating: PG-13   
Archive: Ratlover, CJK, Basement.  
Comments:   OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try 

DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013. But, by chance, I too encountered them. 

NOTE: If the duties of a senior office on site are not as I describe them, I don't care. <g>

* * *

******************************************************* 

CHANCE ENCOUNTERS: This being the Third 

******************************************************* 

It was relatively early in the evening when Skinner shut the motel's cabin door behind him. 

He rested his forehead against the door. Exhausted. Heart-weary. 

The hostage incident was over. 

As senior official in charge, it had been his duty to inspect the mountain cabin down the road when the crisis was over, to see to the bodies being bagged. 

To inform distraught parents as to the contents of two of the bags. To suggest that neither be opened in their presence, that closed caskets should be considered. 

To have obscenities yelled at him by a mother who would never hold her children again. To be blamed by a father for the death of his children. 

To inform another set of parents of the death of their son, a son they accused the system, through him, of failing. 

To console his negotiator, a woman with children of her own. 

To thank the field agents, the local and state cops for their help. To try and abate their feelings of helplessness, to recognize the long hours they had put in to trying to resolve this situation without bloodshed. 

Now, he had nothing left. Not even the energy to disrobe, to get rid of the smell of frustration, fear, horror that permeated his clothes. 

He didn't even have the energy to hear the water running in the tub. 

"Can you turn around?" 

The voice drew him to try. Krycek. 

He rested the back of his head on the door, too tired to try and straighten up. Too tired even to be surprised that Alex Krycek had shown up here in his motel cabin, in what was basically a cross-roads, in the Blue Ridge Mountains. 

Krycek stripped him quickly, efficiently. He was getting much more competent with that one hand. 

He didn't speak, sensing that Skinner was beyond speech. He left him there for the time it took to go and turn off the taps in the tub. A shower would have been easier to organize, but the cabin didn't come with one. Went back and manoeuvred the man into the bathroom. 

The water in the tub was hot, not unbearably so. Skinner knew he would fall asleep if he stayed in for any length of time. Then found he really didn't care. 

Krycek took off his sweater to wash Skinner. The man's exhaustion was written on his face. His eyes were bruises of purple in a drawn face. He had never seen Skinner with stubble other than end-of-the-day stuff. He figured the beginnings of the beard represented the number of days the man had done with either little or no sleep. 

He knew, from the media reports, that Billy Lee had kidnapped the Dawson twins a week ago, had been traced to the cabin three days ago. After that, there had been a news blackout. 

Krycek wasn't sure what it was that had made him check who was senior officer. Or why, the longer the crisis went on, he felt it necessary to get here. It wasn't as though he could stand by the man in the field, or help with negotiations. He just felt that he had to come, and for once in his life, he put his needs before his orders from the Consortium. 

He'd been with the FBI long enough to know what a senior officer's duties were. He had heard the mother screaming, the father cursing just like everyone else here at the motel which had been designated crisis centre. Had seen, from behind the curtains in the window of this room, Skinner move on to the van belonging to the kidnapper's parents. Had seen Skinner move among the men, console a silently crying woman. Had seen him stand by the ambulances that took the bodies away. 

Had seen his face when he turned to walk over to the cabin assigned to him. Had even seen one of the agents stop another from following him. 

He knew no one was going to come in and check on Skinner. It wasn't their job. 

Skinner's skin had been cold when he'd undressed him. Now the heat was working and his body was warming up. He was also slipping down into the water. 

Krycek pinched him awake. "Come on, Walter. Get up." It was like trying to get a gigantic bag of flour to stay upright. By the time he'd succeeded, he was almost as wet as Skinner. 

He braced Skinner's hands against the bathroom door, dried him down quickly, propped him up again and got him out into the bedroom. After the tub, it was relatively easy to get the man into bed. 

Krycek went to put some order in the bathroom, hung his wet jeans over the towel rack, checked to make sure the outer door was locked, even shoved a chair under the door knob to insure that no one would come in and take them by surprise. 

He finished stripping, slid into the bed next to this man who had drawn him here. Skinner was sleeping fitfully. Krycek pulled him closer, snaked his arm under Skinner's arm to around his back, anchoring him solidly against him. 

He dozed rather than slept so that when the nightmare started, he had no trouble waking Skinner up. 

"Walter. It's over. Let it go. You did everything that you could. It's not your fault." 

Skinner thought that Krycek was part of the dream. Suddenly dawned on him that the man was real, was really here. 

"Alex? What are you doing here?" He tilted his head back to look into the face of this man who disappeared and reappeared in his life. 

"Came to see how you were doing." He kept his voice soft. 

"Not well." Skinner closed his eyes. "I lost them, all three of them." 

"No. You don't take that kind of responsibility onto yourself. You didn't lose anyone, Walter. They weren't yours to lose. Their karma was bad, their time was up, God willed it. Whatever shit it is that you want to blame it on, but not you." 

Skinner shook his head, silently disagreeing. 

"You did your job. You got the best people in. I recognized Hennesey down there. Are you trying to tell me that she didn't do her best to get those kids out of there? Is that what you told her?" 

Skinner shrugged, dispirited. "There had to be a key somewhere. Something I missed." 

"Fucking shit, Walter." Krycek's anger got through to Skinner. He looked at the man, more alert this time. "You of all people should know that there are asshole-subhumans in this world. You dealt with enough of them in VCU. You've read enough of Mulder's reports to know that there are things in this world that aren't human in human form. Billy Lee was some amoral psychotic punk who got his jollies kidnapping and killing a couple of kids..." 

"He tortured them." Skinner's voice interrupted Krycek's anger. He took a deep breath. "They started out as identical twins and he tortured them in identical ways. 

"Then when he was all done, because they still weren't quite dead yet, he rammed his silenced gun up their asses and fired. 

"Then he blew his brains out and died instantly. We found his jeans soaking wet with semen. Caked with it. All the time he was carving them up, he was coming. 

"He was seventeen years old and his parents don't understand how he could have hurt anyone because he was such a sweet little boy." 

Krycek hadn't move all the time Skinner was voiding. Now he grabbed Skinner's chin. Held it tightly. "He was a monster. The kids are better off dead." Skinner made a growling sound in the back of his throat. "What? Would you have preferred the kids to live? Like that? Blind. Maimed. Emasculated. Is that what you would have wanted for them, Skinner? Them alive so that you wouldn't feel like you'd lost your little battle with Billy Lee?" 

"No!" Skinner pulled his chin out of Krycek's hand, pulled back from Krycek himself. 

"Then what the fuck have you got to feel guilty about? You did your best. Your team did its best. You tried. The fact that you didn't get the kids out has nothing to do with you. It has to do with a monster who wasn't going to come out of there alive no matter what anybody did." 

Skinner got out of the bed, was staggering on his feet. 

Krycek joined him, stood close behind him, not touching him. "If you weren't so exhausted, if you had gotten some sleep in the last few days, if you hadn't talked to those people, the parents, you would know that you had done your best. That you aren't responsible for what happened in that cabin any more than you're responsible for Billy Lee." 

He touched Skinner's shoulder then, had his hand shaken off. Skinner took a step further away from him. "You don't understand. If we'd found them earlier..." 

Krycek was used to rejection. Found that Skinner's was more painful than he wanted to admit. He went to find his clothes, dressed. 

Hesitating and then not touching for fear of further rejection, Krycek passed Skinner on his way to the door. "Sorry. I shouldn't have come. I thought maybe I could help." He stood at the door, his back to Skinner. "Instead, I seem to have made things worse." 

He moved the chair from under the knob, began opening the door, ready to slip out. 

"Alex." Skinner's voice was hoarse with pain. 

Krycek stayed for a moment. Felt a hand touch his shoulder. He turned, back against the door. Skinner rested his head against Krycek's shoulder. As the first sob broke through him, he began sliding to the floor. 

Krycek tried to hold him up, ended up on the floor with him. Cradling him. Listening to him empty himself of the grief of the situation. 

Sometime before dawn he got Skinner into bed. He tucked the blankets around the sleeping man. Bent and kissed him on the temple. 

Slipped away. 

*******************************************************  
End of Part 3  
*******************************************************

 

* * *

 

Title: Chance Encounters IV   
Story in 6 parts   
Author: Josan  
Date: Written July, 1999   
Posted October, 1999  
Summary: A series of chance encounters can have personal consequences  
Pairing: Sk/K   
Rating: NC-17   
Archive: Ratlover, CJK, Basement.  
Comments:   OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try 

DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013. But, by chance, I too encountered them. 

* * *

******************************************************* 

CHANCE ENCOUNTERS: This being the Fourth 

******************************************************* 

The late February surprise snowstorm had effectively shut down DC. 

Not that there was a lot of snow, relatively speaking. Not even four inches. But the news programs were filled with images of cars sliding sideways down streets, buses unable to get up hills, a few stalwart souls cross-country skiing across Washington Monument Park. 

Skinner was just happy to have made it home in one piece. The Bureau had shut down at noon, everyone sent home to try and control Friday's rush hour. It had taken him three hours to accomplish what usually took forty minutes. 

He filled the CD player with jazz, changed into jeans and sweater, and was examining his fridge to see if he had put that bottle of white in when the doorbell rang. 

He wasn't expecting anyone, but assumed it was someone from the building: security downstairs was quite tight these days since the Condominium Board had hired an ex-cop for the lobby desk. They still hadn't gotten over the body tossed off his balcony. 

He looked through the peephole anyway to check. Saw the back of a head resting against the door. Longish black hair. 

He wondered if it was just wishful dreaming that made him think he knew whom the hair belonged to. 

He made lots of noise unlocking, then opening the door. 

Opened it to see Alex Krycek leaning against the door jamb. 

Skinner slouched against the edge of the door, looked over the man he hadn't seen since that fall night in Virginia. 

Krycek waited for Skinner to finish checking him out. He didn't know if he was going to be invited in, had no intention of asking. It had been almost five months. Surely by now Skinner had taken up with someone. He had convinced himself that this visit was just to satisfy his curiosity: Skinner's private life was just that, private. He knew no one whom he could casually ask about it. 

Skinner, he admitted, looked a thousand times better than the last time he'd seen him. And the sweater and jeans made him look hot. He found that he had no trouble remembering the taste of his mouth, of his skin. His cock twinged at the memories. 

Skinner was both attracted and irritated. The "boy" felt he could come and go with impunity. Stir up his life, his libido. Make it impossible for him to want anyone else, that is if he could ignore the work load that had dropped on his desk since some of the cut-backs the Bureau had undergone in the fall. 

Neither said anything, each waiting for the other to make the first move. 

Skinner broke first. "Shit!" He reached out and dragged a suddenly smiling Krycek into the apartment. 

Krycek took a very quick glance around the apartment from the entrance way. No signs of anything more than a Skinner habitation. 

He turned and pushed Skinner against the apartment door, mouth hungry on him, hand at Skinner's waistband, hurriedly pulling down the fly. 

Skinner was taken aback for exactly five seconds. After that, he tried to devour the mouth on his, one hand clamping Krycek's head to his own, the other also working down a zipper. 

They were both hard, erect, hungry. 

Krycek dropped to his knees, prosthesis supporting his weight against the door, hand pulling out Skinner's already thickening cock. 

He hadn't been able to put it into his mouth when Skinner also dropped to the floor, pushed Krycek onto his back, mouth hungry at the man's waist. He was more successful at capturing his prey. Krycek gasped as Skinner's mouth enclosed his cock. 

He let himself enjoy the sensations that Skinner's mouth elicited. Then suddenly felt bereft. It took a push and a twist, a quick limber movement and he too had a mouthful to work with. 

Skinner remembered the things that Krycek had seemed to like done to him, had Krycek do things to him that made him see stars. 

There was no real subtlety in this encounter: it was just plain hungry sex. 

Skinner came first, took time to finish before he returned to the business in his mouth. He had an easier time of swallowing Krycek's come this time as it shot down his throat. 

They lay, fully dressed except for partially open pants, Krycek still in his leather jacket, faces resting in each other's groins. 

Skinner gave Krycek's softening cock a final suck, let it slip out of his mouth. "Jesus! I'm too old for this on-the-floor stuff." 

Krycek rubbed his face on Skinner's penis, "We can move to the carpet if you prefer." 

"Carpet burn." Skinner pulled himself up Krycek's body to kiss him on the mouth. He had dreamt about that mouth, had craved it. Now he had it. 

Krycek returned the kiss with a deeper one of his own. He had been worried that he wouldn't be allowed in. Felt giddy with relief. 

Skinner grabbed Krycek's head by the hair, held it still till the eyes looked at him. He had a grin on his face, the delight in his eyes reflecting the delight on the face between his hands. 

"Hi." 

"Hi." 

"Nice to see you again." 

Krycek swallowed a laugh. "Same here." 

"So tell me, Krycek, are you going to be here when I wake up tomorrow morning?" 

Krycek's expression grew thoughtful. "Would you like me to be?" 

Skinner was about to make some snarky remark but caught himself just in time: Krycek was seriously asking that question. Was still waiting for the answer. 

Skinner stroked his lips across Krycek's mouth. "Oh, yes." Then to lighten the moment, "Besides, the whole city is closed down. DC has little snow clearing equipment. Public transport has been closed down. My car does not have the proper tires for dealing with this weather. Face it, Alex, you're snowed in with me for the duration." 

His voice took on an evil edge. "And I get to do anything I want to you." He dropped a light kiss on that delicious devil smile spreading across Krycek's mouth. "And everything I've dreamt of doing." 

******************************************************* 

The stubble rubbing against him woke Skinner up the next morning. He lay in bed quietly enjoying the sensation of waking up with an armful of Krycek. 

The previous evening and night had been any excuse to touch, to taste. Foreplay, as Krycek called it, had taken place on the couch, in the kitchen on the table, even on the carpet. 

It was as if once the initial encounter was over, there was no hurry to do anything but re-establish contact. 

Almost by mutual understanding, the time was spent in cock-teasing, heavy petting, necking sessions that led to the edge but not over. 

By the time Skinner suggested they go upstairs, Krycek's eyes were heavy with arousal, his cock was sore from rubbing on his inside seam, his skin felt every thread in his t-shirt. And he couldn't remember ever having been so stimulated in his life. 

Skinner just wanted to feel skin against his skin. One more touch from Krycek and he was going to blow up. 

They drew out the torment by undressing each other slowly until Krycek finally had enough and dragged Skinner down onto the bed. 

******************************************************* 

They shut the world out. 

Unjacked all the phones. Took the batteries out of the cell phone. Unplugged the computer. No TV. No radio. 

Just jazz, chess, lazy conversations about music, chess strategy, books. No references to anything in the "real" world. 

Making meals together. Making love on the couch, fast and hard. In the bed, exploratory. Learning more and more about what pleased the other. Sleeping entangled together. 

Monday morning arrived in spite of them. 

Skinner put on his Bureau persona while Krycek, eyes still heavy from early morning sex, watched from the bed. 

Neither spoke. Skinner knew Krycek would disappear again before he'd be back tonight: Krycek, because he didn't know what to say. 

Skinner gave his suit jacket a last shrug so it settled into place. At the door he stopped, turned for one last look. He sighed, went back to the bed, took one last kiss and left. 

Krycek's eyes stayed shut until he heard the downstairs door close. 

*******************************************************  
End of Part 4  
*******************************************************

 

* * *

 

Title: CHANCE ENCOUNTERS V   
Story in 6 parts  
Author: Josan  
Date: Written July, 1999   
Posted October, 1999  
Summary: A series of chance encounters can have personal consequences.  
Pairing: Sk/K   
Rating: NC-17   
Archive: Ratlover, CJK, Basement.  
Comments:   OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try 

DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013. 

* * *

******************************************************* 

CHANCE ENCOUNTERS: This being the Fifth 

******************************************************* 

The top ranks of the Consortium lay clustered in the disused hangar. 

Burnt. Most beyond recognition. Some into seared ashes. 

Because of Mulder's involvement, Cassandra Spender's disappearance yet again, the role the X-Files had played, Walter Skinner found his department assigned clean-up. 

Stone-faced, voice brisk, expressionless, he supervised the tagging of bodies, such as some were, for future identification. Some had no discernable body part to be tagged and so numbered cards were placed near for photo identification. 

And all the time he examined the site, answered his agents' few questions, conferred with the forensic specialists, he kept his eyes open for a body with no left arm. 

Once his heart stopped when he found a body that seemed to qualify, but the pile of cinders next to it held no plastic smell. 

By the end of the thirty-hour period it took to carefully bag the forty-seven bodies and anything remotely near them, Skinner was numb. 

He had memorized several of the tag numbers that might prove to be the man he sought. 

Dana Scully had been put in charge of forensic identification at his request. Not only did he feel that she was the best qualified of his people for the job, but this way all identification reports would come across his desk. 

Weeks later, nineteen of the bodies still hadn't been identified. DNA records, dental records, blood type had to be matched and all this took time. 

Skinner grew more and more silent with each report passing over his desk. Most of his staff never noticed. They were all trying hard to deal with the enormity of the problems, the revelations of those involved, men of influence, men of status, men many of them had respected. 

Before the deaths, he had sold the condo and bought a house in Arlington. The condo had never felt like home and the house had a yard, room to spread out in, space for an office. Wood and brick were more solid than an apartment on the seventeenth floor of some cement and metal construction. Then he had needed grounding. 

He moved in, barely unpacked. His days began too early and finished too late. 

His neighbours, after initial attempts to introduce themselves were coldly rebuffed, left him alone. Some of them knew he was with the FBI. None of them had any idea of his involvement with the strange deaths of the "cult" that had made the news only scantly: an airplane crash had wiped it off the TV screens. 

Slowly he forced himself to take on a semblance of life. He hired a lawn maintenance crew so his neighbours on the street wouldn't freak out at the condition of his yard. He tried to keep his hours at the office to his normal ones, still long but no longer twenty-hour days. 

By summer's end, all but seven of the bodies had been identified. And Scully felt that they might never be. 

The Smoker aka CGB Spender and several of his associates had been arrested for their involvement with the Consortium. The war between the rebel aliens and the aliens had moved on to other places. 

In all that time, Skinner had kept to the belief that if he were alive, Krycek would somehow contact him. Six months after the burnt bodies had been found, he gave up that hope. He had asked Mulder if he had any kind of lead on Krycek, who, it turned out, had supplied Mulder with a great deal of information. But none since the burning. 

The night of his forty-ninth birthday, he spent alone in his darkened living room, drunk, finally forcing himself to accept that Krycek was probably one of those bodies that was ash. 

He became more taciturn, colder at work. People became very wary of approaching him, afraid of being cut to ribbons by his tongue. He suffered fools even less gladly than he had ever done. 

He lost weight, had trouble sleeping. Brought work home with him so he would have something to do besides drink. 

Dreamt far too much of a one-armed man whom he couldn't even mourn publicly. 

******************************************************* 

The doorbell rang. 

Even though it was Hallowe'en, and the neighbourhood was filled with kids of all ages, only the stalwart ones, or the ones dared by their friends, had rung his doorbell. He hadn't prepared for the evening, hadn't really been aware of what this was other than another Saturday night. 

He answered the door anyway. Why not? It would only add to his reputation as the bete-noire of the neighbourhood. 

There were two little girls on his stoop. He recognized them as the one who lived next door and her friend from down the street. They had to be best friends as he had never seen one without the other. 

He said nothing. Just waited. His neighbour with the glasses was dressed as some bespectacled witch, her friend as a vampire. 

They looked at him with trepidation. 

"The man asked us to give you this note." The witch handed him a chocolate bar wrapper. 

"The writing's on the inside," said the vampire. 

And they ran around the dividing fence to the witch's house. 

Skinner held the piece of paper in his hand, opened it to the inside. 

Please, may I come in? 

Skinner shook his head to clear it, read the paper again. Realized that he knew the handwriting: had seen it once before on another note that had accompanied a tape. 

He looked up. In his front yard was an old black walnut tree. The trunk seemed to separate and a shadow moved away from it. 

He stopped breathing as a ghost approached the stoop and stood just within the circle of light from the open door. 

He was thinner, his face more feral, his eyes almost black in the scant light. He wore that ubiquitous black leather jacket of his. His hair was pulled back. There was a new scar just under his right eye. He limped slightly. 

Skinner stared, not really believing his eyes. 

"You're dead," he whispered. 

"Not yet." Alex Krycek was surprised by the changes he saw in the man in front of him. What the hell was wrong with Skinner? He looked like a man who had been seriously ill. 

Skinner backed in. Krycek followed him. 

Krycek closed the door, went into what had to be the living room. Skinner was pouring himself a stiff drink. Gulped a good portion of it down. Turned to face the man who stood in the doorway. 

What does one say to a ghost? 

So he hit him, hard, with the flat of his hand, across the face. 

Krycek was taken totally by surprise. The force of the blow knocked him to the floor. Before he had time to protect himself, Skinner had him by the front of his jacket, hauled him up, and slammed him against the nearest wall. 

"You fucking bastard!" Skinner was white, his voice quivering with anger. So angry that all he could say, over and over, was "You fucking bastard!" as he slammed Krycek against the wall yet again. 

Krycek got his hand up, tried to push Skinner away from him. This wasn't the welcome he had so anticipated. 

He raised his knee sharply to groin the man, hard. 

Skinner turned to catch the knee on his thigh. Released him enough so that Krycek could twist out of the hold he had on him. He tried to make for the door, but Skinner dropped his weight onto his back and they both went down. 

Krycek landed hard on a leg that was still recovering from a bullet. Skinner landed hard on him, knocking the breath out of both of them. For a moment the world spun out of control. 

Skinner had heard the grunt of pain that had preceded the sharp exhalation of air. In spite of everything, he felt concern begin to override his shock. He rolled off Krycek, but kept him confined on the floor, prosthesis under his chest, right wrist clamped to the ground, one leg over Krycek's to keep him pinned down. 

Waited for Krycek to catch his breath. 

"All you had to do was tell me no," the man gasped. 

"I thought you were dead. I thought that if you were alive you would contact me somehow, let me know." Skinner took a deep breath. With all the pain, the loss he had felt over the months, "Why didn't you contact me?" 

Krycek looked into a face that was etched with pain. He stopped struggling. "I never thought of it," he whispered. 

"You never...Jesus! Alex! What did you think it would do to me, looking at those piles of ashes week in week out, and not knowing which one was you? I thought we...God knows what I thought...Christ! I am such a fucking fool." 

He rolled off Krycek, releasing him. Lay on his stomach, head buried in crossed arms. Disgusted with himself, for believing they actually had something. 

Krycek sat up carefully, looking at the man lying next to him, in obvious pain. 

He reached out his hand and gingerly rested it on Skinner's shoulder. Skinner flinched. He pulled it back. 

"Walter. Are you saying it mattered? That you..." He got no response from the other. He tried again, not sure where he was going, suddenly only knowing that he was on the verge of losing something he wanted badly. 

"Walter. No one's ever cared enough about me to...I mean, why would you...Ah, shit! I didn't know..." He hugged his legs up close to his chest, hurting and not knowing what to do about it. 

He'd had dreams about the time they had spent together. They'd gotten him through some tight times in the last months. But he'd been smart enough to know that's all they were: dreams. And yet now... 

"There are seven bodies that Scully thinks will never be identified. Mulder knew some of the ones we did identify. Knew that you worked with them. It made sense that you'd be there." 

Skinner paused to control the trembling in his voice. "Mulder says he hasn't had any contact with you since the burnings. It was as if you'd disappeared off the face of the earth. What else was I supposed to think?" 

Krycek was still working his way around the fact that he had meant something to Skinner. That he had probably destroyed whatever that something was. 

Desolate, he moved slowly to his feet, hurting more than he thought he could bear. He had to get out of here, before he dropped to his knees and begged Skinner to give him another chance. He'd blown it, and hadn't even known until it was too late. 

"Alex. Where were you?" Skinner raised his head, looked up into a face as ravaged as his own. 

"Tying up loose ends." He owed Skinner that much at least. "The Consortium had cells in other places. The rebels needed a human front to deal with them, and they decided I was it." 

He made it to his feet. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I never meant to."   
"Alex, I can't take this coming and going. It rips my guts out." 

Krycek absorbed pain like a body-blow. He rested his forehead on the door, put his hand on the latch. "You won't see me again. I promise." 

"Where are you going now?" Skinner sat up. 

"Does it matter?" 

"Alex, why did you come here tonight?" 

Krycek made a sound that could have been a laugh. "Would you believe it, I was coming to ask you to let me stay for a while. Until you got bored with me." 

Skinner got to his feet. Went to stand behind his lover. "That might be a long way down the line. Are you sure you can stay that long? Because, Alex, that's the only way you can stay. If it's for the long run." 

Alex turned around. Walter saw the hunger in Alex's face, reached out and pulled him into his arms. 

They stood by the door, just holding onto each other for dear life. Tightly, almost painfully. 

"You ever leave again," Walter rubbed his face against Alex's hair, "I'll track you down and pound the shit out of you. You got that?" 

"Yeah." Whispered, but with hope. 

******************************************************* 

There were things they had to talk about, to clear the air. The past had to be dealt with before they could try for a future. 

It was late and they were both exhausted before they found their way upstairs to the bedroom. They barely had the energy to undress, slip between the sheets and wrapped themselves around the other. 

And it was late when Walter woke to find a pair of green eyes watching him. "You been awake long?" 

Alex shook his head. "No. Not really." Then, because he was still insecure about all this, "Walter, are you sure about this? About me staying? Here, I mean. In this house." 

Walter tilted his head back, the better to see Alex's face. "Bored already?" 

Alex tried again. "No. But, shit, Walter, you're an assistant director. Living openly with a man isn't going to do your career much good. And living with me..." 

Walter placed his hands on either side of Alex's face, pulled him down for a heart-felt kiss. Held him close. "Life in the suburbs won't be so bad, Alex. Of course, you will have to give up killing, extortion, all that stuff you're so good at." 

"Walt, I'm serious." 

"I know. I know. But we live in 'Don't ask. Don't tell.' And I'm sure we won't be the first male couple in this neck of the woods. As for my career, well, I was never meant for the top floor. And I rather like keeping my hand in the field." He smiled. "Stop worrying about that." 

But Alex was uneasy. "Walter..." 

"If you have to worry, Alex, worry instead about what I'm going to do to you." 

Alex thought a moment. "That sounds rather like a threat." 

Walter rolled over so that Alex lay flat on the bed. He stroked his foot over the leg closest to him, ending up with his foot anchoring Alex's ankle. At the same time, his right hand slipped up the length of his arm, pulling it up so that he could imprison it against the headboard. 

He took his time checking out the body now spread out for his inspection. There were a few new scars. Some not too important. A couple that made him happy he hadn't been around when they had been added to Alex's collection. 

Alex lay passive, waiting for Walter's next move. He felt anticipation mingled with a little wariness. He wasn't used to letting himself be examined this way. 

Walter's eyes finally came to find his. 

"Not a threat. A promise. 

"I promise that, after we've showered, after we've had breakfast, I'm going to drag you back to this bed. I'm going to taste every inch of your body with my mouth. Lick it. Bite it." 

Alex's eyes opened wide, a hint of pleasure already appearing in them. 

"I'll find all your pulse points and suck my mark on you. Shape your collar bone with my teeth. Bite the soft skin of your underarms, the inside of your elbow, the back of your knees." 

Alex made a soft groan, ran his tongue over his lips, his mind already reacting to the images that Walter was providing. Even his cock was appreciative. 

"I'm going to play with your nipples till they're so tender that when I blow on them you're going to scream. I'm going to tease your skin with my mouth, my fingertips, my nails so that you can't think." 

Alex moaned, tried, but more as a token, to pull out of Walter's grasp. His cock was hardening from the mere thought of what Walter was promising. God! It had been so long! No one since their last time together. 

"Then when I finally get around to your cock..." 

"Jesus, Walter. Touch me!" 

Walter grinned. His own cock was also reacting to his scenario, but he wanted to wait, to see what would happen. "When I finally get around to your cock, all I'm going to do is take the tip, just the tip, Alex, into my mouth. Just to get a taste of pre-come. I'll play with it, dip the tip on my tongue into the slit, suck. See if I can make you come just like that." 

Alex's breathing had deepened, his eyes closed. He was biting his lower lip. His hips arched in invitation. Walter's voice had hoarsened: he was catching himself in his own web. 

"I'm going to take your balls, one then the other, into my mouth, warm them up, play my tongue on them. I'll lube my hand, stroke my finger up from your balls to your asshole. Tease it with my finger tip. In a bit, out, around and again and again till it twitches. Till you open up for me. My finger will go in so slowly you'll want to thrust back, so I'll have to hold you down somehow. Because I'm the one who's deciding how deep I'm in. And when I go in further. And if it's one finger. Or two. Maybe even three. 

"How hard that will be, only you know. How long since you've been stretched out that way? Will it burn? Will it feel so good that you'll beg me to fuck you with my cock?" 

Alex's erection was deepening in colour, his hips writhing for contact of some kind. Walter knew that Alex could have, at any time, pulled out of his grasp, if he had really wanted to. Knew that he would have allowed him to. But he lay there, enjoying his passivity. Revelling in having his mind fucked, having his body respond. 

Walter's own erection was demanding attention. He ignored it, watching Alex's body flush, feeling his own heat up. 

"Then, maybe, if you ask nicely enough, I'll fuck you. I'll pull your legs up over my shoulders. I'll position myself against that lovely asshole of yours and slowly, so slowly it'll make you crazy, I'll push in, till my balls are squeezed against your ass. In so tight that there'll be no room between us for even a breath of air. 

"Would you like that, Alex, if I took you that way?" 

Alex had enough of the teasing. He twisted suddenly, taking Walter a bit by surprise. He pulled away, jerking his body so that he sat up over his now recumbent lover. 

"You fucking cock teaser!" he snarled. He dropped his mouth to Walter's cock, taking it into his mouth. Unlike Walter's scenario, he sucked on it hard, taking as much of it into his mouth into his throat as he could. 

Walter grunted, raised his hips to allow Alex easier access. Caught by the images he had used to arouse Alex, he found himself as ready as his "victim". 

Unfortunately, there was nothing in the room by way of necessities. He was no longer expecting Alex, so there were no condoms, no lube in the drawer by the bed. 

That didn't deter Alex. When he was sure that Walter's cock was well slicked with his saliva, he positioned himself over his lover's erection and dropped his ass to absorb it. 

Walter moaned aloud. Alex gasped at the initial pain: he had gone too quickly and it had been some time. They both took a moment to adjust. Walter raised his left knee so Alex could use it as support as the man began riding. 

Now that Alex had what he wanted, Walter's cock in him, he took his time. Clenching his muscles, milking the feeling of being filled. 

Walter's hand, wet with his spit, with pre-come, worked Alex's cock in the same rhythm. He kept his eyes open, wondering at the beauty of the man above him, head thrown back, throat exposed, eyes closed in appreciation and concentration. 

Walter's orgasm threw Alex into his own completion. 

They lay, still joined, listening to each other's heartbeats return to normal. Arms wrapped around each other. 

Walter moved just enough to slip out of Alex who grunted a bit at the feeling. 

He kissed the side of his lover's head. Against his temple, he whispered, "Welcome home, Alex." 

*******************************************************  
End of Part 5  
*******************************************************

 

* * *

 

Title: CHANCE ENCOUNTERS VI  
Story in 6 parts   
Author: Josan  
Date: Written July, 1999   
Posted October, 1999  
Summary: A series of chance encounters can have personal consequences.  
Pairing: Sk/K   
Rating: PG-13   
Archive: Ratlover, CJK, Basement.  
Comments:   OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try 

DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013. But, by chance, I too encountered them. 

* * *

******************************************************* 

CHANCE ENCOUNTERS: This being the Sixth and Last 

******************************************************* 

Scully pulled up beside Skinner's house. Hers was the only car in the driveway but there was a large double garage at the end of it, so she assumed his car was there. 

She needed to discuss something with him. Coming to his house was chancy, but he'd become much more approachable since the fall. And she really needed this discussion to be off the record. 

She had been surprised at the neighbourhood. Not the apartment complex that she associated with her boss. This was definitely comfortable middle-class. Nicely tended front lawns. Spring flowers all carefully maintained. Two cars in the driveways, one usually a van. Kids of all ages all over the place. 

The house was a bit of a surprise as well. Brick on the lower level, wood for the second. Good-sized front yard, and, from what she could see of it, an even bigger back yard. 

There was a very large, very old black walnut tree in the front yard of Skinner's house, another equally large in the yard next to the neighbour's house. 

There had been speculation, when Skinner's mood had improved, that, to quote Mulder, he was getting laid regularly. The house and its surroundings would certainly point to a man who had settled down. 

She hoped he wouldn't mind too much that she had sought him out on his home turf. 

She rang the doorbell. 

There were footsteps on the other side. The door was opened and a voice said, "I just don't get it with you and hardware stores. Why do you have to buy out the place whenever you go there?" 

Scully, disbelieving, drew her weapon and went in. 

"Krycek?" 

"What?" Alex Krycek turned, saw the drawn weapon and groaned. 

Slowly raised his one arm. "Scully." 

"What the hell are you doing here, Krycek? You're supposed to be dead." She kept her weapon aimed at Krycek's heart. At this distance, she couldn't miss. 

Krycek grimaced. "What are you doing here, Scully? Why aren't you cutting up some dead body or something?" 

Scully ignored him. "Where's AD Skinner? What have you done with him?" 

"I haven't done anything with him. He's gone to the hardware store for his usual Saturday fix." He turned his head at some noise coming from the kitchen. Looked back at Scully. "Shit, Scully, if you're going to shoot me, come do it in the kitchen. It'll be easier to clean up. And that pipe is going to drain all over the floor if I don't get to it." 

And with that, Krycek lowered his hand, turned and went into the kitchen. "And close the front door. You never know what's going to drop in." 

Scully was stunned. Slowly, she lowered her weapon, turned, closed the front door. Followed Krycek into the kitchen. 

She didn't see him right away, which made her raise her weapon again. Heard a muttered curse. Saw two long legs sticking out from under the sink. 

It took her a few moments to realize that Krycek was just too comfortable, too familiar with the place to be a stranger here. Astounded, and more than just a bit wary, she put her weapon away, pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. 

"What are you doing here, Krycek?" 

"Removing the garbage disposal. The bloody thing screams like a banshee when you turn it on. Scares Doogie to bits." Scared him too, but he wasn't going to admit it. It sounded too much like one of the alien sounds for his comfort. 

Scully suddenly realized what was different about him. "What happened to your arm, Krycek?" 

"Got cut off." Then a heart-felt "Shit! At this rate, I'm going to lose the other one, too." He slipped out from under the cupboard, sucking on the knuckles of his hand. "Pass me some of that towelling, will you, Scully." 

Scully tore off a couple of squares of towelling from under the cupboard by the stove. Wrapped an impromptu bandage around the knuckles that Krycek held out to her. It had taken her barely a breath to figure out he couldn't easily do that with only the one hand. 

"Thanks." He slipped back into the cupboard. Began muttering again. Scully sat back down. 

Out of the corner of her eye she saw something move. She turned her head. "Krycek, what is that?" 

He poked his head out. "Oh, that's Doogie." 

"What exactly is Doogie?" 

He went back to the pipe and wrench. "According to the vet, he's a whippet collie mixture. Personally, I think he's just a giant rat." 

Personally, Scully agreed with him. Doogie had a long thin nose, seemed to have a longish thin body: it was hard to tell under all the grey, black, brown hair. He looked particularly pathetic, what with the patchy pelt, that cone thing around his neck and the front leg in the cast. His big brown eyes tracked around the room, nervously. 

"What happened to him?" 

"Someone dumped him on the Freeway. He got side-swiped by a car. Walt rescued him. Took him to the vet. And now we've got a dog." Krycek sounded rather put off with the whole thing. 

Except that the dog, nervously keeping an eye on Scully, made his way, belly to the floor, to lie next to the man. His long, thin tail flopped onto Krycek's thigh as if for contact. 

"It's okay, Doogie, she won't shoot *you*." 

Scully sat looking around the room, registering that it looked like any kitchen that she had ever seen. Why did it feel so surreal? 

"Scully? Make yourself useful, will you? Turn on the tap. I need to see if this thing's tight." 

Scully got up, went to the other side of those legs so as not to disturb the dog, and turned on the cold water. 

"Stop!" Muttering. "Okay, try it again. Now both of them. Okay!" Krycek came out, patted the dog gently on the head. "There, you're safe from the big bad boogie man, Doogie." 

He stood up. Rested a hip against the counter. Wiped his hand against his jeans. "Thanks for the help. Want some coffee?" 

Scully wondered at the casualness of the offer. She wouldn't be surprised if the dog spoke next. 

"Sure." Then, because she wasn't certain just how able Krycek was, "Want me to make it?" 

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "No. I can do that. Why don't you see if Walt left any of the cheesecake that's in the fridge." 

Which is how Dana Scully found herself drinking coffee and eating triple sin chocolate cheesecake on a Saturday afternoon with Alex Krycek. 

Which is how Walter Skinner found them. 

He'd come home to find a Bureau car in the driveway, made his way carefully around to the back of the house, waiting to be out of sight of the neighbours before drawing his own weapon. 

He had quietly entered through the door of the mud room, come up to the kitchen to find Alex, feet propped up on a chair, sharing cheesecake with Doogie and Dana Scully. 

"So did you leave anything for those other hardware store junkies?" Alex took a sip of coffee. 

Walter looked over the situation, saw a relaxed Alex, a wary but happy dog, and a Scully who looked unsure as to her reception. 

He put away his weapon, patted the dog gently on the rump. "That," he grouched, "is my cheesecake you're eating." 

"We left you a slice." Alex seemed unconcerned with the grouching. "Coffee's fresh." 

Walter passed his hand possessively over Alex's shoulder, eyes watching for Scully's reaction. Poured himself some coffee, took the last piece of dessert, joined them at the table. 

He choose the chair Alex had his feet on, lifted them, sat and placed them on his lap before picking up his coffee. 

Scully was no dummy: she got the message loud and clear. 

"What can I do for you, Agent Scully?" Walter had his AD Skinner voice on. 

Alex grinned, poked him in the ribs with a foot. "She came to speak to you, but she's not going to want to if that's the tone you take. Be nice, Walter. She could have shot me, but she didn't. And she bandaged me." He held out his towelled knuckles. "Why don't you two go into your office and talk there." 

Walter shook his head. "No. Whatever she came here to say, she can say it in front of you. I'll only tell you about it anyway. Because this is off the record, isn't it, Agent Scully?" 

Scully looked at the two men. "Yes, sir. It is." Her eyes dropped to examine the coffee cup in her hands. "Agent Mulder will be handing in his resignation on Monday." Realized that Skinner wasn't surprised by the announcement. "He's told you, Sir." 

"No. But it's been obvious that he wants out. What with those offers he's getting from publishers and the speaking circuit. Besides, what's he going to do in the Bureau for an encore? He's proven that his theories weren't. He'd either have to work in a team or take one of those promotions they've been offering him. Personally, I can't see Fox Mulder doing either of those. Can you?" 

Scully shook her head. "No, Sir, I can't. The problem then becomes me." 

"How so?" 

"Well, I doubt if, after seven years with Agent Mulder, I can work with another partner." 

"You'd be bored silly," agreed Alex. "Well, she would be," he answered Walter's raised eyebrows. "Imagine her with some idiot like Jeff Spender." 

Scully winced. "It seems to me that I have two other options. One of which is to hand in my resignation as well." 

"And do what, Scully?" Walter had dropped the Skinner voice. 

"Go into regular medicine. Then there's a chance at an ME's position in Philadelphia." 

Alex snorted. 

"What?" Walter waited for the explanation. 

"Get real. Scully, if you go into regular medicine, you're going to have to deal with sick people. And though you're used to dead people, when did you last spend any amount of time with sick people? Don't you remember how whiny they get?" 

Walter quickly changed his laugh into a cough under Alex's glare. 

"And as for the ME's job, well, that might be okay, but in Philadelphia?" 

"What's the other option, Scully?" Walter had to admit Alex had some valid points. 

"There's the possibility that there will shortly be an opening for a Department Head of Forensic Investigation at Quantico. But for that, I'll need your recommendation. And even then, " she took a deep breath, "nothing is guaranteed. The posting will be filled on competition." 

"Who else could be in the running?" 

"Sobol from VCU. Jeffries from New York." 

"Sobol's an alcoholic. Jeffries is hated by everyone who's ever worked for or under him. Seems to me that you have more than better chance at getting that position. If you want it." 

A phone rang in the distance. Neither man moved to answer it. Scully noticed that they were listening. After three, the ringing stopped. 

Alex took his feet off Walter's lap, stood up. "I'm off." He smiled at Scully. "Good luck with the decision. Come on, Doogie." 

The phone began ringing again. Alex hurried down a side hall, dog at his heels. Scully heard a door close. 

She waited a minute. "Sir. I'm sorry I dropped in this way. I didn't know." 

Skinner smiled. "It's no great secret, Scully. Everyone in the neighbourhood knows. I would just rather that it not be a subject of discussion at Headquarters. There are no charges pending against him, but there are some people we would rather not know he was around." 

"Yes, Sir. Am I one of those people?" She met Skinner's eyes in a forthright manner. 

"Are you?" he threw back at her. 

She thought before she answered. "No." 

******************************************************* 

Skinner walked Scully to her car, held the door open for her. 

"Thank you, sir." 

But before she could slip into the car, Skinner placed his hand on her elbow. "Don't move," he whispered. 

Scully looked carefully around. She and Skinner were both slightly protected by the open door. Slowly she went for her weapon. Skinner stopped her with a warning squeeze. "Hood," he spoke in her ear. 

Scully looked to the hood of her car, expecting a bomb at least. 

Instead she saw two sets of eyes peering up over the front of the hood. One with glasses and shaggy banks. The other, pigtails. 

She waited, breath held, wondering just what was going on. 

The two little girls slowly stood up. Scully realized that she was quickly examined and dismissed by those eyes. They were far more involved with Skinner, who, when Scully looked over her shoulder, was wearing that stone face of his. 

The girls glanced at each other, took deep breaths. Very seriously, very warily, they moved from the front of the car. 

Glasses was carrying a platter of cookies, the chocolate chip type made with Smarties. Pigtails had a large dog bone in her hands. 

"Special Agent Scully, may I present two of our neighbours, Bailey," the cookies gave a little nod, "and Sarah." Another very little nod. 

Scully returned both nods straight-faced. Whatever was going on here, it was heavy. 

Bailey offered up the cookies to Skinner, as though it were some sacrifice being offered to a deity. "Would you like one of the cookies, Mr. Skinner? We made them ourselves." 

"They're very good," put in Sarah. 

Scully waited, but Skinner didn't move. The platter wobbled a bit. Two sets of eyes got very wet. 

"Please. We didn't mean anything." Sarah. 

"Mom explained that it was an invasion of your privacy. We didn't know that." Bailey. 

"Mom said it would serve us right if you never had anything to do with us again." Sarah, even more teary-eyed. 

"Please, Mr. Skinner, we won't do it again. We promise." Bailey's lower lip was trembling. 

"Cross our hearts." Sarah's chin was getting into the act. 

Scully was horrified: what had these two children done for Skinner to be treating them this way? 

But Skinner figured he had made his point. He reached over and took one of the cookies. Ate it. 

Scully watched as chins, lips, eyes switched off to relief and smiles. 

"They're good, aren't they?" Bailey gave a little bob with her head. 

"Yes," conceded Skinner. "You might want to offer the lady some." 

The platter was presented to Scully. She took one, nodded her thanks, took a bite. "That's very good." 

The two girls shared a look. Skinner sighed. He knew where they were going. 

"How tall are you?" Bailey asked Scully. 

Scully blinked. "Five, three." 

"Are you going to visit often?" asked Sarah. 

Skinner answered for her. "Probably." 

The girls exchanged grins, said "Red Riding Hood" together. 

Skinner reached over to the cookies. "I'm taking my share now, or I'll never get any." 

The girls giggled. 

"He's in his office. Knock before you go in." 

Scully realized that whatever the transgression, it had been forgiven. The girls turned to go. 

Bailey hesitated. "Papa Bear, we really are sorry. We won't do it again." 

"Okay." Skinner smiled ruefully. Yeah, right. Until the next time. 

"What was that all about?" Scully accepted another of the cookies. And what was this "Papa Bear" stuff? 

Skinner leaned back against the car, rested an elbow on the roof. 

"When you were a kid, Dana, did you ever read a book called 'Harriet the Spy'?" 

"Sure. But what...Oh, you've got a couple of spies living next door." She grinned. Tried to swallow it as Skinner didn't seem too happy about it. That explained the "Papa Bear". She couldn't resist, "Do they call Krycek 'Mama Bear'?" 

Skinner sighed loudly. "No. He's 'Spymaster'. He's the one who organized the kids into this thing." Answered Scully's raised eyebrows, "He's surprisingly good with kids." 

He ate the last cookie. "Bailey and Sarah were involved...somewhat...in our getting back together. It fit right into this spy stuff they were into. Alex thought it was a hoot when they told him. So he's organized the kids into two cells with Bailey in charge of one and Sarah the other. They're Red Rose and Snow White. The girls are also into fairy tales." 

Scully understood. "Which is why I'm Red Riding Hood?" 

Skinner nodded. "There are lots of advantages to this thing. There's no way a stranger can spend any time in the area without being sized up. Any thief stupid enough to try a break-in around here will be described down to his underwear. The kids look out for each other, just in case some enemy spy might want to capture them for questioning. They make Neighbourhood Watch obsolete." 

"But?" Scully was beginning to have the glimmer of an idea. 

"But there are disadvantages. Especially with Bailey living next door. And Sarah might just as well." 

"Such as?" Scully bit her lip, couldn't stop the gleam in her eyes. 

"Such as," Skinner winced, " since the other night, we have to check that the bedroom curtains are drawn." 

Scully looked to the large tree in Bailey's yard, realized its proximity to the upstairs windows. 

She tried hard to control the giggles. Really, she did. Couldn't. They grew louder, became laughter. Very loud laughter. 

Scully rested an arm on the roof of the car, dropped her head onto the arm. She couldn't take the disgruntled look on Skinner's face. She tried hard to get her laughter under control. Nearly did. Made the mistake of peeking up at Skinner. 

Skinner watched Scully sink down to her seat, folded over with laughter. Alex had found it funny, too, once he'd gotten over the initial shock. Even Bailey's mother had snickered when she'd recommended that maybe they should draw their curtains or check out the tree before engaging in "conjugal activity". 

Skinner was finding it just a bit harder to see a funny side to the whole thing. Maybe it had something to do with his age. 

He waited, casually studying the neighbourhood while Scully got a grip on it. He'd bought the house because something about it had appealed to him. The fact that the street was curved, that the big trees were still around had, he now guessed, given him a sense of privacy. 

The house had been too large for one man, but he had thought that two, especially two with differing needs, might fill it out nicely. And they had. 

The fact that he had never considered his neighbours might have turned out to be a problem. Except, once Alex had arrived, once he had felt alive again, his neighbours had proven to be a bonus. No one that he knew of had openly disapproved of their lifestyle. Or had ostracized them, in spite of his behaviour at the beginning. 

And even Bailey and Sarah could be fun. 

Scully was sitting behind the wheel, pretty much under control. She'd had to wipe her eyes, but the laughter had become just the occasional snicker and she should be able to drive without causing an accident. 

He shut her door. 

"Dana, go for Quantico. You'll be good at it. You'll get it." Even if he had to call in some markers. "Then come for supper. Spymaster makes an incredible marinera sauce." 

Scully giggled. "What, no borscht?" 

Skinner grinned. "Alex hates Russian food." 

They could hear the dog barking, excitedly, in the house. 

Skinner growled "Oh, God! What's he teaching them this time!" 

Scully watched "Papa Bear" stalk, grouching, into the house. 

She was laughing again as she pulled out of the driveway. 

*******************************************************  
nif  
*******************************************************

  



End file.
